The Art of Strategic Planning
by SadSamAK
Summary: Intrigued by his new concierge doctor, Boris schemes on how to more fully integrate Hank into both the Hamptons and Boris' own life. One plan after the next leads to mixed failure and success. Poor Boris! Starts at season one. Hank/Boris.
1. Plan A: Direct from a Distance

_Summary: _Intrigued by his new concierge doctor, Boris schemes on how to more fully integrate Hank into both the Hamptons and Boris' own life. One plan after the next leads to mixed failure and success. Poor Boris! Season one, with minor spoilers.

_Pairings: _Boris/Hank.

_Disclaimer: _I do not own nor ever shall any of the characters, though I would greatly enjoy doing so.

_Rating: _This will (probably) eventually be M.

_A/N: _I have had to imaginatively create some of the background for Hank, Evan, their father, and Boris, especially related to ages and time frames. As much as possible, I have stuck to the canon background. Why this story? I thought there was an intriguing chemistry between Hank and Boris. In particular, I love Boris' character and want to see it developed more.

Chapter One will be a bit shorter than future chapters.

**The Art of Strategic Planning**

**Chapter One**

**Plan A:**

**Direct from a Distance**

At the age of forty-four, German nobleman Boris Kuester von Jurgens-Ratenicz often found himself bored. He was a recluse, a man who valued his privacy almost more than any other possession, particularly as privacy was such an elusive quantity in the Hamptons. Wealth was important to him, but not as an end in itself. He had been born wealthy, had become quite accustomed to the power and privilege wealth extended to him. Thus, wealth was only important because it allowed him to do as he wished, sometimes in ways that would make others question his morality, and because it virtually guaranteed that he could keep his private life just that: private. There was no reason, he believed, for others to dig into what they did not need to know.

Unfortunately, this degree of privacy often left him with the distinct feeling of boredom. Loyal servants, ones who knew him well enough to leave him alone except when he asked for them, surrounded him. His bodyguards were previous Mossad agents, and all of them knew how to keep annoying pests off his estate. His home was silent, one of the things he demanded from his servants—and that was one of the reasons that he found himself almost perpetually isolated from others. It was his own fault, for he had almost ruthlessly established that he would not be disturbed if no emergencies existed.

Sometimes, his own ability to get exactly what he wanted seemed to backfire on him in ways that he could not anticipate. He would not trade his isolation and privacy for sheer variation in his life, but at times the silence, the seclusion made him wonder if he had not acted too precipitously.

This had become particularly clear when he met Henry "Hank" Lawson.

Boris knew that he would never forget that night. He was holding one of his rare and exclusive parties, one complete with models and other superstars. Music had thumped throughout the house, lights had shined, and beautiful and enormously wealthy guests had streamed between various rooms and the outdoors, particularly the gardens. As was his custom during such a party, excepting a few strategic appearances, Boris had watched from the peripheries, much like his own Mossad security agents.

His time at the peripheries had ended abruptly with the arrival of one fairly-short and slender Doctor Lawson.

The moment he saw the young doctor, Boris had found his mouth dry. The lovely young doctor's eyes were emeralds glittering from the depths of a fair skin. Dark lashes, each lash lightening towards the top, surrounded the eyes, with light brown eyebrows. His face was lean, with faint laughter lines around the eyes and mouth as well as a smile that was generous and welcoming. Dark brown hair curled around his face, trimmed short; Boris was sure it would be unruly if allowed to grow longer. The light blue of his shirt, while not matching his eyes, somehow lightened his features. Most of all, Boris noticed that, all looks aside, yet another thing was remarkable about this young doctor: his eyes almost seemed to glow from within. They were captivating.

That night remained in his mind as pivotal. One of his guests, a supermodel named April, had traversed his botanical garden and, apparently, she had inhaled something deadly. His concierge doctor, Doctor Silver, had suspected April of drug abuse and had been about to treat her for that—until Doctor Lawson had arrived on the scene. The young doctor, probably twenty years Silver's junior, took one look at the ailing woman and knew that it was not drug abuse. No, he somehow knew it was insecticide that she had inhaled, and he had saved her life.

For a good part of the evening, Boris and Lawson had heatedly contested one another, and Boris had been shocked: no one, and he truly meant _no one,_ argued with him. He was rich, powerful, and of noble descent. People did what he said without question. However, here was a man about ten years younger than himself, a young guest at his own party, who had _demanded_ his cooperation in saving someone's life. They had eventually worked out a compromise, another amazing event, for Boris simply did _not _compromise. He made others compromise; he did not do so himself.

Rather than being furious, though, as he would normally have been, Boris found himself relishing the confrontation. This young man knew who and what he was—at least to the extent that he knew that Boris owned an extensive manor and had Mossad agents as his bodyguards—and he outright fought just about every gesture that Boris made.

It was exciting, it was a break from the boredom that had cursed his life—indeed, it was a _challenge_, for Lawson was just as stubborn and unwilling to compromise as Boris. The German noble couldn't remember the last time he had last felt so rejuvenated, so intrigued by someone else. His life to this point had assured him that few people, if any, would defy him. Even more, his experience in the Hamptons had proven to him that those who surrounded him could never challenge him.

He had been wrong, even if that person was clearly _not _from the Hamptons.

Thus, within minutes of meeting Hank Lawson, he had known with absolutely no uncertainty that this doctor would be something he had never experienced before. He was a true challenge, a young person who did not care about Boris' wealth or his position in society. Lawson's intelligence and integrity shone through his every action, from his almost jarringly insightful diagnosis of a rare toxic reaction to his hostility against being _paid _for saving someone's life. Boris had never seen anyone so capable of thinking in unusual ways and, even more, of seeing alternative explanations for expected behavior. Indeed, he didn't seem to like easy answers—he even seemed suspicious of them. In this regard, he was very much like Boris.

Doctor Lawson filled Boris with hope. He made him think that, perhaps, not all people could be easily bought, that not all people valued wealth and power over human integrity. Truthfully, he made Boris _believe_ again when his belief in human integrity had long been dead.

As the good doctor became a part of the community—almost against his will, for Boris could be very strategic in his manipulations—he watched as his doctor gained a reputation for not only being the best of doctors, but for also being a man of great honesty and compassion. While he would fight for a patient with the tenacity of a pit bull, he only did so when absolutely necessary. Otherwise, he was gentle, kind, caring, even compassionate. His kindness also wasn't a convenient mask. From his own knowledge of human behavior, a knowledge gained over years of dealing with people who could and would lie without blinking, Boris knew that the gentleness was real; Lawson cared for those he treated.

However, Boris wanted more than that. He wanted _Doctor Lawson_ to become _Hank Lawson_ to him: to be comfortable being the young man he sometimes glimpsed behind the professional persona, not just the doctor.

Boris smiled, eyes looking out his window and studying his vast grounds. He wondered where his spirited doctor might be, what he might be doing this very moment. Eventually, Boris would always know that.

It was a slow task, but Boris was gradually drawing Hank into his own world, into his own influence. Hank Lawson was still fairly young, and he seemed at times to be wandering, to be looking for something. Boris hadn't yet learned what that _something _might be, but he strongly felt that Hank also didn't know. The good doctor had been fired from his last position for saving the life of a teenager rather than the life of a hospital benefactor. His fiancée had also broken off the engagement, Boris assumed because she was a gold-digging mite. He was sure that this broken engagement had been to Hank's benefit, even if Hank didn't quite see it that way.

After leaving, Hank had drifted, and from what Boris could tell, he didn't quite know where to point himself. Hank seemed to be looking for something even he could not describe, but Boris thought he might be able to name it. In his own opinion, Boris thought Hank was looking for security, for permanence, for meaning. Without the knowledge of what he wanted, Hank had floundered until Boris offered him an option he had never considered: working in the Hamptons as a new kind of doctor, one who set his own schedule and came to his patients when they were in crisis.

As a _crisis_ was almost as inevitable in the Hamptons as fast cars and large estates, Doctor Lawson was steadily finding himself in a position where he could help many people and still tend to those who could not afford medical care at all. Boris had never seen a concierge doctor care for an entire population of people, no matter their status or wealth, and it made him strangely proud of the man. He had plans for Hank, but Hank also, apparently, had plans for everyone in the Hamptons, including Boris. He seemed bent on converting them to his own way of thinking.

Boris _did _have plans for Hank, amazing, wonderful plans. In these plans, Hank would steadily learn to be part of the community Boris now called home, and that community would learn to see the good doctor as someone it could never afford to lose. From his understanding of the people Hank had treated, this part of his plan was already working remarkably well. Furthermore, Hank seemed less inclined to simply leave the Hamptons, as he had at the beginning, especially after his brother's cajoling.

There were few things agreeable about Evan Lawson, but Boris freely admitted that the younger brother had helped keep Hank in the Hamptons, and for this he was grateful—even if he certainly would never tell _Evan_ so.

From what Boris had seen, Hank Lawson had had very little permanence in his life. He had been orphaned when he was thirteen, thrown into a cruel and destabilizing foster care system that had frequently parted him from the only family he had, his (annoying) little brother. The records suggested that Hank's mother had died of cancer while his father had abandoned him. Probably because of his father and his time in foster care, Hank seemed to have a very negative outlook on authority; indeed, his irreverence for authority had probably been at least partly responsible for Hank's defiance the first time they met at Boris' party.

Boris remembered Hank standing up to him that first day. He had watched, fascinated by the audacity, as the younger man met his eyes, unflinchingly. The German's amazement had escalated when he considered that he practically loomed over the much shorter and slimmer doctor—and there he was, still defiantly challenging him. He liked this; in fact, he liked it a lot. He had never seen a more interesting young man shaped in such a handsome physical package, and he had known almost instantly that this man needed to be _his_, that Hank Lawson needed to be forever in Boris' life.

Boris needed this handsome doctor: in every possible way. He needed him as his companion, who could always make him smile, who always looked up to him for help and advice, who always looked at him for protection. He needed someone looking up to him, had yearned for it longer than he could accurately remember. Boris wanted to give Hank everything he had never had, to make him smile as his cares and concerns dissipated. Indeed, he wanted to give Hank everything: cars, trips to the Riviera, endowments to charity, anything that might make his doctor smile.

Yet Boris needed more than that. He needed Hank to care for him as much as Boris was beginning to realize he cared for Hank. Boris needed to sink into Hank's arms, kissing him, holding him: claiming him. He needed to have that same lovely man meet his passion with his own, giving himself completely for Boris' taking. He needed his doctor committed to him: his companion for life, in bed and outside it.

Thus, in pursuit of this young man who had stolen his heart, Boris had developed Plan A: his strategy to attain Hank Lawson's trust and to simultaneously bring the younger man into his life more and more. From a distance, Boris would teach the doctor that he could come to Boris with any problem, that Boris would be more than pleased to help guide him and protect him in any way. He wanted Hank to start going to _him _when a problem arose, not to his brother or to, God forbid, _Jill Casey_.

Boris was certain that his plan would take long and would be arduous, but the end result—Hank—was well worth it.

* * *

_Next Chapter: Plan B. _Eddie enters the picture. Boris intervenes. And we get to see Domineering Boris.


	2. Plan B: Intervene

_Summary: _Intrigued by his new concierge doctor, Boris schemes on how to more fully integrate Hank into both the Hamptons and Boris' own life. One plan after the next leads to mixed failure and success. Poor Boris!

_Rating: _Still T for this one. We have a bit to go before it reaches M.

_A/N: _Eddie comes out a bit more sinister (maybe?) in this than in the show, especially after "In Vino Veritas." I love the character of Eddie almost as much as Boris. Both men seem to have some hidden, enigmatic traits. Hopefully, I've portrayed Boris in a believable manner. I can see him reacting very possessively to someone he loved.

**Chapter Two**

**Plan B:**

**Intervene**

One evening, Boris realized that his original plan to slowly draw Hank to his side and into his sphere of influence was not only inefficient, but, more importantly, possibly dangerous to his doctor's continued well-being. Obviously, he needed a Plan B, for he could no longer wait for Hank to come to him for guidance and protection. He realized this in a very inopportune moment, when Hank looked to be in trouble.

It was fast approaching night, with dusk having moved on towards a much deeper darkness. Light could still be seen trembling across the horizon, but it was pale, fading. Boris guessed that there would only be thirty more minutes of even this pale light in the sky before everything became completely black.

At the time, he was gazing out his window, preparing to leave his work for the evening. As had been his habit since Hank Lawson arrived on his estate, Boris was looking out towards the guesthouse in which the younger doctor stayed. He could barely see it, its outline only completely visible by the lights that were now illuminating the darker parts of the estate. Through the windows he could see light glowing cheerfully, and he wanted nothing more than to walk towards that light and join Hank in whatever he planned for this evening's relaxation.

Musing on the younger man who he was increasingly finding himself attracted to, in both physical appearance and personality, Boris found his eyes noticing two shapes standing on the hill beside the estate's lake. He would not have noticed them, not in this half-light, had one of them not suddenly moved towards the other. Upon further consideration, a frowning Boris realized that one of the figures was his Hank. The other figure he did not recognize, but it was most certainly not the annoying, ever-present Evan.

His concern increased when the unknown person reached for Hank—and Hank tried to jerk away only to be violently spun around.

Boris was shooting up from his chair in a flash before he even knew what he was doing, barreling out of his office and calling for Dieter. Though Dieter had most definitely already been dismissed for the day, Boris was not at all surprised to see the man appear almost instantly, as if materializing from the shadows lurking in the hallway. Dieter was still fully dressed in a suit and tie, though his tie was slightly loosened; the man looked at Boris, completely alert.

"Get security. Now," Boris commanded in terse, intense words. He knew that Dieter could sense his urgency. "We have a breach in sector five. It looks like someone is assaulting Doctor Lawson."

Dieter's eyes widened fractionally, leading Boris to realize that his loyal aid knew of his interest in Hank. Seconds later, Dieter was producing a cell phone from what seemed thin air, rasping into it, "Security to me now, sector five. We have a security breach. Repeat, _we have a security breach_."

Dieter took security seriously.

They were flying out the manor's doors, three security men flanking them, three more several meters in front of them, before Dieter had put the cell phone away. At times like this, Boris was especially glad that he had paid the extra money needed for ex-Mossad agents. They were some of the best in the world, and he would not trust his own security—not to mention that of those he held dear, and Hank was increasingly dear to him—with anything else.

Quickly, they walked towards the hill in sector five. Years ago, Boris' lead security man had insisted on dividing the estate into security sectors. Of course, Boris had agreed, for it made perfect sense, even when his man had demanded that he learn each sector in one day and repeatedly demonstrate his memory of the sector grid. The sector divisions were coming in very useful today, for they were allowing him to immediately tell his men where the problem was.

Before he knew it, they were there. Hank, standing about a bit shorter than his assailant, was still firmly held in place by their trespasser. As he neared them, he could tell that the bastard was clamping a strong hand against Hank's shoulder and another around his slender waist. Hank was a feisty man, one who fiercely fought if someone threatened him, but he seemed unable to break the man's hold on him.

This was unpardonable. No one walked on to Boris' estate and assaulted one of his guests, especially not Hank. Simply _no one _got away with this.

"State right now who you are and why you are here," he snapped into the air, nearing Hank. Startled, Hank turned dark eyes towards him. If he weren't mistaken, clear relief shone from the doctor's face. It was all he needed to see to know that this _person_ would be lucky to live if Boris had any say—and Boris most certainly _would _get his say. He had frightened someone Boris considered to be _his._ He met Hank's eyes steadily. "Are you all right, doctor?"

Hank was the first to speak after clearing his throat. "Yes, thank you, Boris. I was just . . . a bit surprised."

That was obviously understatement. Certainly, having someone waylay you while in the middle of a top-security estate would be surprising. Boris was simply grateful to see that Hank didn't seem terribly injured.

His eyes turned once more to their trespasser. He was almost the same height as Hank, with dark eyes and white hair. Overall, he had the air of a swindler, making Boris instantly wary. "And you? Who are you, and what are you doing here?"

Approvingly, Boris noticed that three of his agents had already flanked the man, pulling him away from Hank with no problem. Another of his agents was standing protectively right beside Hank while the other two were at the ready should anything be necessary.

He moved to Hank's side—the side opposite his agent—and took an equally protective stance. Hopefully, Hank would not consider him overbearing, but the doctor's safety was his first concern. He could deal with any outrage (and he probably would) later.

With the exception of his mysterious assailant, Hank was almost a foot shorter than everyone surrounding him, including Boris, and it made him look even more fragile, even more in need of Boris' protection. Boris swallowed a lump at that assessment and moved closer to Hank's side.

The stranger swallowed heavily, glancing at Hank's face. He moved to place his hands behind his back, only for seven fierce voices to simultaneously shout, "Keep your hands in sight!"

With a wince, Hank lifted one hand. He seemed hesitant but determined, an expression Boris was sure only Hank could manage. "Please, Boris, everyone—" he began nervously, meeting Boris' eyes "—while I don't want him here any more than you do, I don't think he's a threat."

There was still uncertainty in Hank's voice and eyes, and that uncertainty seemed to communicate volumes to Boris' security team. They did not at all loosen their stances.

"Who is he, Hank?" Boris asked. He placed a hand on the doctor's shoulder, careful not to hurt. "I take it you know him."

Hank sighed explosively. "Yes . . . yes, I guess you could say so." He shook his head, looking away. He stared once more at their trespasser. "He's my father."

By his expression alone, Boris could tell just how disgruntled and unsettled Hank was to see this man. He wasn't surprised, given his identity. From what Boris had learned in his many and quite thorough investigations into Hank's past, his father had been out of the picture since he was thirteen. Nothing indicated that he had seen the man since then—even when Hank ended up in foster care for three years straight.

Boris grunted. This struck him as concerning. The man had deserted Hank and that idiot of a brother Evan . . . and he just _happened_ to return into Hank's life when he was a guest at Boris' estate? He didn't believe in coincidence, and this was one unbelievable coincidence.

Dieter's expression seemed to shout—for Dieter, at least—his own disbelief.

"Ah." Boris looked at Mr. Lawson, his eyes harshly tracing the man's features: dark hair turned white in spots, tanned skin, hazel eyes. Other than the hazel eyes, he really didn't seem to resemble Hank at all. Maybe he could see more similarity to Evan. "Is this true, sir?"

The man nodded, grinning uncertainly. "Oh, yes, Hank here is my own boy." He shrugged, and Boris was certain the man was trying to look harmless. He only succeeded in alarming Boris even more. Boris could practically see the hackles rising on his lead security agent's neck. "It's been awhile since we saw each other. I was just . . . looking him up."

"Hmm." Boris' tone was unnaturally calm, almost clinical. Several less-than-civil expressions almost slipped by his tongue, but he noticed Hank's numb expression. He had obviously been shocked by his father's appearance. "Hank, correct me if I am wrong, but didn't he leave you and your brother when you were thirteen? When your mother was dying of cancer?"

Sighing, Hank stared at something to the right; Boris followed his gaze, but he appeared to be staring into nothingness. He eventually nodded. "Yes. You have good sources, Boris." He glanced up again, his eyes suddenly cold as they settled on his father. "I haven't seen or heard from him since."

Mr. Lawson looked about to launch into some absurd explanation for why he had abandoned Hank for _almost twenty years_. Boris cut right into his unspoken words: "I thought that might be the case." His stare was ice when he looked at the father. "I will speak to you alone, Mr. Lawson. We will set terms and boundaries for your presence on this estate."

The man looked offended and, ludicrously, seemed about to blurt out some ridiculous statement or other. One look from Boris and his team snapped his mouth shut.

"Good, I see I have your attention and cooperation," Boris stated evenly, though he put some emphasis on _cooperation_, knowing it was anything but that. He then smiled, looking at Hank with concerned eyes. "Is Evan in the guesthouse right now?"

Hank nodded, inhaling sharply. He even managed a faint smile. "Yeah . . . yeah, he's home. Probably burning dinner as we speak."

Hearing this, Boris couldn't help but smile. It wasn't just the idea of Evan burning dinner—he had seen enough of the man's culinary skills to know this to be true—but one word that Hank had spoken: _home._ He had called the guesthouse _home._ The very thought sent a warm glow to his heart.

Now, if only he could get Hank to see the rest of the estate as _home _. . .

However, he had other matters to address right now. He gently squeezed Hank's shoulder and nudged him towards the guesthouse. "Why don't you go rescue your dinner from Evan? I'd like a moment to speak with your father. It shouldn't take long."

Hank flicked intense emerald eyes between Boris and his father. After a second, he nodded. "All right . . . just let me know what you two . . . decide . . . when you're done." His slight frown indicated concern, but Boris didn't think he was at all upset with Boris for taking charge of the situation. In fact, he thought he saw gratitude. Normally, Hank fought his own battles, and he did so vigorously, but Boris thought his father might overwhelm him, especially after not seeing him for so long.

He would always protect Hank. Hopefully, this was one way he could show Hank just how much he wanted to protect him, to make him safe and secure.

Hank looked at his father and sighed. "Dad . . . just listen to what he has to say. This is his home. He has every right to restrict your access to it." He started heading back, but he added over his shoulder, "I'm sure Evan will see you tomorrow."

Evan? Boris wondered if this was all Evan's doing; if so, he wouldn't be surprised. The man was an idiot, a complete boor. As Hank continued to walk back to the guesthouse, Boris subtly inclined his head until his lead security officer indicated for one of his subordinates to follow Hank back. It was just a safety precaution.

There was absolutely no warmth in his eyes when he turned back to Hank's poor excuse for a father. The man shifted uneasily under his gaze.

At least he had some common sense.

"So, I finally meet the inestimable Eddie Lawson," Boris spoke, his voice deadly. "Your reputation precedes you, Lawson. Unfortunately for you."

Lawson rubbed his hands up and down his pants. "I just wanted to see my boys, I assure you. No harm meant." Again, that nervous smile jerked across his face. "I've missed Hank . . . missed them both. Wanted to look them up since I was in the area, see how they were."

Boris' face was stone.

"I just got in touch with Evan, had a good talk," Lawson continued to stupidly ramble, his voice getting increasingly anxious the longer he spoke. "Asked him where they were staying, if I could see his brother. He told me about the estate and the concierge practice and made me really want to see Hank in his own setting, you know, see how—"

"You can shut up now," Boris interrupted with a hiss, stepping around Lawson like the predator he truly was. Lawson whimpered as he tried to move away from Boris. "I was not born yesterday, Lawson, nor am I a fool. You are not deceiving me at all."

"Deceiving? I'm not tryin' to. I jus' wanted to see—"

Boris was in his space in less than a second, eyes practically glowering. He had rarely been this furious. "You walk on to _my estate_, without asking for _my permission._" He stepped even closer, until Lawson was backpedaling as fast as he could. "You _grab my guest by the shoulder_ when he clearly wants to leave, literally _flipping him around_ against his will." One more step, and Lawson was all but pissing his pants. Boris was taller than Lawson, and he used that height to his advantage by looming over the bastard. "And you do _all of this_ after not contacting him for his entire adult life?"

Lawson squeaked in consternation as Boris took his last step, bringing him so far into the man's space that he was almost stepping on his shoes.

Right now, Boris was glad that Hank was not near to overhear his words. They would have hurt the younger man, despite how true Boris believed them to be. "I find it rather interesting, Lawson, that after twenty years of not giving a damn about whether he was alive or dead, you decided to visit Hank while he was on _my estate: _my very _wealthy estate. _Do you care to explain yourself?"

Nervously, Lawson looked around himself, perhaps searching for an escape route. It would not surprise Boris if the idiot tried to run.

"Well, I just . . . happened to be in the area. I heard . . . he was here. Thought I'd see how the boys were."

It was extremely telling that the man was incapable of meeting Boris' eyes—or any of their eyes, for that matter.

"Believe me, Lawson, I know men like you. Gold diggers who will use anything or anyone to advance their own financial status, even if that means using their own flesh and blood," Boris rasped with disgust. He again leaned into Lawson's personal space. "And do not think that I don't know exactly how to deal with leeches like yourself."

Though his eyes were angry, Boris noticed that Lawson did not try to deny Boris' allegations. Boris simply nodded. It was what he expected.

"Thus, Lawson, we are going to make a deal—or, more to the point, you are going to accept my terms and run like hell in hopes that I do not make things worse for you." Lawson gasped, his eyes wide. It was an expression annoyingly similar to Evan's. Boris increasingly found himself wondering if maybe Hank had been adopted. He really didn't fit into his family at all. "You are never again to step foot on the grounds of this estate—and I mean _my entire estate_—without express and written permission from me or my security team in advance. You are not to come here with Evan or Hank without their permission, also written in advance. And you are _never_ to gain access to my manor proper or to consider asking for that access, no matter the reason."

He began walking around the man, a shark circling its prey.

"Should I find anything missing—_anything_—I will immediately suspect you to be the thief. And should I find anything missing, Lawson, I will not turn you over to the local authorities. I will, instead, turn you over to my security team, comprised of former Mossad agents."

Lawson's eyes were large, and his mouth was grimly compressed into a thin, white line. It was exactly what Boris wanted to see.

"Do not for a moment think that I cannot also make your life sheer hell _off_ this estate. If you should in any way harm or otherwise jeopardize the good doctor, on or off my estate, I will track you down unto the ends of this earth and utterly destroy you. Should you borrow money from him, steal money from him, or otherwise endanger his financial success by any interpretation of _endanger_ that I please to take, I will hound you until you wish you had never existed.

"Should you wish to meet with Hank, you will notify me first, and I will establish whether such a meeting will be allowed and when." He glared sharply as Lawson's eyes practically bugged out of his skull at this declaration, the man opening his mouth in protest. "I or one of my staff will be present for such a meeting to make sure that you are not harming the good doctor.

"Hank will never know of the restrictions regarding meeting and contacting him, for you will keep your silence on this part of our arrangement. You may inform him of the restrictions on your access to my estate. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

Boris, long accustomed to getting his way and to being listened to without hesitation, was pleased to see that Lawson looked like he had come very close to soiling himself. Maybe it was excessive—he was sure Hank would say it was, but he was equally certain that Hank would never know the full extent of his intervention—but at least it would protect the young doctor from his father. Boris didn't trust this man.

"Y-yes," the man stuttered, swallowing hard and staring at Boris with horror. "Wh-what of Evan? Do the same rules apply?"

Boris shook his head dismissively. "Other than the estate rules—and that includes the guesthouse—no, they do not. I couldn't care less whether you contacted Evan."

Frankly, Boris would be very pleased to see Lawson drag Evan away to whatever hole he had crawled out of, except Hank would miss his younger brother. They seemed unusually close, despite their differences; it was probably because they had to rely on each other so much as children.

Lawson abruptly looked pugnacious. Hilariously, Boris thought he looked like a bug-eyed and tiny Pug standing up to a noble and fierce German Shepherd. "What the hell _right_," he began, gaining his courage in the face of Boris' chilling antipathy, "do you have to tell me that I can't see my own—"

Moving so fast that no one could see him, Boris placed his right hand around the man's throat. Lawson instantly shut up.

"I have every right," he began, hissing. He squeezed his hand once before releasing Lawson's throat. "Hank is under my protection. German nobles do as they wish, and I will not explain myself to you. Leave. Now."

Three of his security agents moved to remove the fool from the premises. For a full minute, Boris watched as Lawson was ushered from his property, then he looked over at the guesthouse. Its lights were still glowing welcomingly in the now-complete darkness. After a quick nod at Dieter and his remaining agents, he began the steady walk towards the guesthouse. He only hoped Hank would not be terribly upset over his father's dismissal, but he had to do what he could to protect the younger man. Boris was reasonably sure that Lawson had been here to somehow scam his doctor.

A few minutes later found him at the entrance to the guesthouse, and he peered inside for a moment. Evan was no longer burning dinner by the look of things, for he was nowhere in sight of the stove. However, Boris didn't see any dishes, so he would make sure that Hank had eaten. If not, he would send something from his own kitchen. His doctor was already too slim.

It looked like the door had been left open for either the father or Boris himself, so he entered, only knocking softly against the doorframe as he entered. He noticed movement in the living area and turned to look. Evan sat on the couch, quietly reading a magazine—Boris never thought he would see Evan doing _anything_ quietly, let alone reading—and Hank leaned against his shoulder. When he walked closer, Boris could see that Hank was asleep.

Evan met his gaze, making a shushing motion. "Sorry, Boris, but he was stressed from seeing dad. He just flopped onto the couch and fell asleep."

Boris nodded quietly, drinking in the sight of Hank sound asleep. His dark hair was slightly mussed, his brown lashes soft against fair skin. While Hank was still fairly young, he looked even younger when he slept, for the stress lines and concern that frequently showed in his eyes faded.

Boris discovered that he could happily stand there all night watching Hank sleep, and he knew it meant something very significant. He was unwilling to name the feeling that bubbled through his heart when he saw Hank, at least not yet.

"Let him know I'll fill him in on the details tomorrow morning," Boris whispered, nodding at Evan. "Make sure he eats, too. He seems to be losing weight."

Evan stared at him, surprised, before looking at his brother. Boris envied him as he swiftly ran his hands over his brother's ribs, expression thoughtful. Hank mumbled softly but did not stir. After a moment, Evan looked up at Boris, sighing. "Yeah, you're right. I hadn't noticed. I'll start mother henning him on that. Always works best with him."

"Well, Mr. Lawson," Boris began, inwardly amused at the fact that he called Evan and his father the same thing, which was truly an insult, "have a good evening. I shall see you later. Give my best to Hank."

If Evan wondered why he himself was _Mr. Lawson _while his sibling was _Hank_, his face didn't show it. He just nodded. "Will do, Boris. Have a good one, too."

Well, as he was leaving the guesthouse, Boris reflected that his conversation with Evan had surely been the most civil they had had since Evan's arrival on the estate. _There_ was progress for you.

Of course, the civilized nature of their conversation might simply have been because Hank was asleep and they didn't want to wake him.

Laughing softly, Boris was fairly certain it was the second option.

* * *

_Next Chapter: Plan C. _The doctor needs a doctor and is completely unreasonable about getting one. Boris finally manages to get Hank to bed, too—though maybe not quite the way you're thinking. :-)

_Thanks to my reviewers!_ I'm so glad to see there are some others who were wanting to see Hank and Boris involved. Xelloss100, I'm glad you liked the development of Boris—and the story from his POV. He is such an intriguing character that I just couldn't resist writing it from his perspective. Thanks, Jupiter, for the comment on the story being well-written. :-)


	3. Plan C: Be Obvious

_Summary: _Intrigued by his new concierge doctor, Boris schemes on how to more fully integrate Hank into both the Hamptons and Boris' own life. One plan after the next leads to mixed failure and success. Poor Boris!

_Rating: _Still T for this one. We have a bit to go before it reaches M.

_A/N: _Plan C will stretch across several chapters due to length.

**Chapter Three**

**Plan C:**

**Be Obvious**

Well into the late afternoon, Boris was absolutely exhausted from a day filled with business meetings, staff meetings, and a security issue with a recent clandestine purchase. His head pounding from the stresses of a very long day, Boris sat at his desk, carefully studying the documents that Dieter had earlier brought him. They were of his most recent investments. It seemed he was doing well, especially given the fairly hideous market conditions. Indeed, he could soon move some of his other investments into these newer funds, for they showed healthy returns. Boris did not need the money, not at all, but he was the master of many financing strategies that had greatly enhanced his already lucrative holdings. He was born a billionaire, but he had at least doubled what he had inherited through shrewd (and, according to American law, sometimes underhanded) business practices.

A soft knock on his door caused him to look up, and he was pleased to see Hank. The young doctor was a bit late for his meeting with him, but he understood; about an hour earlier, Hank had called to let him know that he would probably be about thirty minutes late given an emergency medical situation. Running a concierge doctor's business meant that frequent delays and unexpected consultations appeared out of nowhere, and their meeting to discuss Boris' rare genetic condition was not urgent: an hour would not literally kill him. Boris was more than amenable to the later appointment.

At his gesture, Hank entered the room. A strained breath escaped Hank's lips, followed by several rough coughs. Boris found himself frowning while he watched the curly-haired doctor.

"My apologies for being late, Boris, but Divya is in New York right now," Hank rasped while he started to sit down in the chair across from Boris. "Things have been a bit hectic."

Boris frowned. "It's perfectly understandable, Hank," Boris responded, his concern increasing as he watched Hank rub at his forehead with shaking fingers. "Are you well? You look a bit under the weather," Boris at last inquired.

"Oh, I look worse than I feel," Hank assured in what Boris thought was a blatant lie, refusing to look at Boris's face. He watched as Hank, receiving a message on his iPhone, quickly looked at who was calling before placing the phone in silent mode. Boris then watched the young man lean forward to hand him the documents that Hank had promised, only to see him sway in his chair until he was practically tumbling against Boris' desk.

Boris shot from his chair and immediately walked towards his ailing-though-he-would-not-admit-it guest. "Hank, just relax for a minute. Please," Boris told him. He tacked on the _please_ since he knew that the good doctor found a request hard to deny.

"Honestly, I'm just a bit tired," Hank ludicrously asserted, again rubbing at his forehead. _Sure you're just a bit tired_, Boris thought dryly, shaking his head_. _Hank looked at him politely. "Do you mind if I pour myself some water?" he asked, inclining his head towards the decanter on Boris' credenza.

Quickly, Boris smiled. "Of course, Hank. Would you like me to get it for you instead, though?" he asked, hoping to keep the younger man seated. He honestly didn't look well enough to stand.

Hank tossed him a reassuring smile. "No, I'm fine. I'd be happy to get it." And with that, Hank stood.

In concern Boris watched as Hank's face blanched, and his concern deepened when a rattling cough burst out of the doctor's throat. He moved quickly towards him, placing a concerned hand on Hank's shoulder. The younger man jerked against his touch, startled, and his slim body swayed.

Unfortunately, the good doctor's arm slammed against the crystal decanter, and it toppled to the floor. Hank tried to catch it, but it shattered across the floor. Water and fragments of glass exploded everywhere. Hank grimaced, apologizing profusely before he unsteadily leaned down to the floor.

"Oh, no," Hank muttered softly. He shook his head. "I'm so sorry, Boris. This was probably more expensive than my car." Boris didn't bother mentioning that it was, by at least several thousand dollars. It truly didn't matter to him. While it was easily replaceable, Hank was not. Frowning, the doctor carefully picked up the pieces of broken glass, sliding them into a pile and placing them on the credenza. "With my luck, it's probably a household antique," he tried to joke though the joke fell flat.

Boris was just too concerned about Hank's health to find anything amusing.

"It's nothing," Boris assured, sinking down beside the young doctor and capturing his wrists. "Let me take care of this for you. Right now, you should just be sitting down."

Hank proved his case by coughing harshly several times.

As if he couldn't hear him at all, Hank insisted, "No . . . I broke it. I should clean it." While he continued to clean the broken decanter, he coughed softly. If Boris were not mistaken, he was trying to stifle them. The German nobleman guessed he was pretending the coughs were not there, some sort of psychological misdirection. From his own attempts at hiding his condition, he knew the symptoms of misdirection all too well.

This would simply not do. "Hank, that is more than enough," Boris snapped, standing with a sharp frown and glaring down at his doctor. Shocked, Hank stared at him, his head tilting up at a perplexed angle. Boris thought he saw some anger burning in his hazel eyes, but it was hard to tell when those eyes were slightly reddened from what looked to be lack of sleep.

_Not ill? _This was preposterous.

Every protective instinct he possessed was rearing, and Boris was hard pressed not to encircle the ailing doctor in his arms and lay beside him until he was better. Of course, laying beside him required that Hank was being remotely reasonable and taking care of himself by resting. As he was seeing today, Hank was the exact antithesis of reasonable when it came to his own health.

This simply reaffirmed in his mind that he needed a Plan C: something guaranteed to make Hank turn to him when he needed help. Clearly, he needed to be more obvious in his concern for Hank's welfare, for Hank seemed oblivious to all but the most blatant gestures. If need be, Boris could be obvious.

He didn't want his Hank to be angry, but sometimes, the doctor only seemed to listen when an equally obstinate person confronted him and demanded his attention. To Boris' knowledge, he was the only one stubborn enough to challenge the good doctor, though Evan tried.

Evidently, the man needed to have some practicality drilled into his hard head. Briefly, Boris wondered if that would be _obvious _enough.

Now to address the problem at hand: one very sick, stubborn Hank Lawson.

First, he tried reasoning with him. His voice was as calm as he could make it. "Hank, you are ill. You should be resting at home." Internally, he smiled; he liked to refer to the guesthouse as _home _whenever he could. He wanted Hank to see it as home.

However, Hank looked at him as if he were insane. "Rest? I can't rest," he told him, coughing. The younger man cleared his throat. "I have too much to do," he grated, eyes wide.

Hmm. Seemingly, reasoning with him was not going to work. Boris narrowed his eyes.

Next, he tried outright guilt. "Doctor Lawson," he began, catching Hank's attention. Boris rarely called Hank Doctor Lawson, so doing so would emphasize his point. "When you are this ill, you could misdiagnose someone. You could hurt someone. Surely, you must understand this."

Annoyingly, though, a cantankerous Hank shook his head. "There isn't anyone else right now, Boris. I need to be on call." Hank shrugged slightly, moving more glass fragments to the pile. He stifled several more coughs, only barely managing to gasp, "Imagine if Tucker gets injured . . . or Libby does something insane . . ."

Briefly, Boris wondered why Hank would think himself to be the only one available, but he set that aside for later discussion. From what he was seeing, guilt was just as futile as logic in convincing Hank to act like a rational being. His doctor was even more stubborn than Boris had realized. However, there was one more tactic that the German had not yet tried. It was not his most favored strategy, but he thought it would work.

Determinedly, he put on his fiercest glare, one that was guaranteed to make the prestigious owners of multi-billion dollar companies quake in their expensive Italian leather shoes.

"If I have to drag you there myself, you _will_ leave that glass alone and sit back down in that chair _this instant_," Boris told him with absolutely no uncertainty, finger aggressively pointing across the room. The doctor stared at him. Hank frowned, opened his mouth, looked about to argue, then seemed to think better of it. Snapping his jaw shut, he stood unsteadily before wobbling over to the chair.

At last . . . Hank was finally listening to him. Hank usually responded poorly to authority figures, so Boris had used this tactic last, but it seemed to work now. Boris sighed for a moment, simply allowing himself to enjoy the doctor's capitulation.

His relief, however, was short-lived. Boris watched him move towards the chair, his concern deepening at the uneven tread. He followed him back to the desk, now perching against its edge. "Is Divya here?" Boris carefully inquired, crossing his arms in an effort to keep from hugging the ill man. Hank simply wasn't ready for that level of attention. He was hoping the answer would be _yes_, but he knew that Divya would never let Hank out of the guesthouse if she saw him like this.

He was right, apparently. "She's been out of town," Hank replied, coughing softly. Hank shook his head. "She had to go to New York for a case."

"Hmm," he murmured. "What of Evan? Is he here?"

Boris wasn't entirely surprised to see Hank shake his head. Even Evan, the idiot younger brother who insistently drove Boris mad, would not let his older brother out of the house if he saw him this ill. Boris could say many things of Evan, including that he was annoying and abrasive, but the man was protective of Hank. It was actually quite humorous, for Evan was the younger brother.

"So, with both of them gone, you have been doing what, doctor? Completely neglecting your health?"

Boris was furious, for he was sure that Hank had been doing just that: neglecting his welfare and focusing on his patients' health. That was Hank's typical modus operandi. However, though he was itching to lecture the young doctor on his own importance, he knew now was not the time. It would not help the situation.

"How can you expect to care for others when you are too ill to stand?" he continued in as sensible a voice as he could reach.

"I'm a doctor, Boris," Hank reminded him. Boris found himself raising his eyebrows sardonically, but he kept quiet. Hank continued, "I can obviously look after myself."

_Of course you can_, the German thought. Boris shook his head. He now knew that he loved this young man, but sometimes he wanted to shake him. The man was more stubborn than anyone he had ever met—at least, if Boris himself were not included. However, he _would _make Hank listen to reason, if Hank liked it or not.

"Yes?" Boris asked with soft scorn. "You do seem to be doing an admirable job of looking after yourself, doctor," he mocked, eyebrows once more perching high on his brow. "I particularly think that the pale skin and nasty cough are encouraging signs."

At this, sick or not, Hank rolled his eyes. He stifled a cough—directly supporting Boris' argument, of course—even as he ludicrously stated, "I'm fine. There's absolutely nothing wrong with me. And I have a lot to do, so could we—"

That was enough. In the past twenty minutes, Boris had heard more absurd lies about Hank's health than he ever wanted to, so he shook his head. Carefully, he placed both of his hands on Hank's shoulders and squeezed. Hank stared at him with something between annoyance and grim determination. He was so ill that his lips were white, his eyes were vaguely red, his skin was almost chalk, but he was insisting that he was just fine.

If he thought he was more stubborn than Boris, he would rapidly learn otherwise.

Boris crossly shook his head. "You are ill, and no manner of denials will make me believe otherwise, doctor," he told him.

"I-I'm not sick," Hank somehow found the audacity to state. However, Boris noticed that he was not looking at him as he spoke. Apparently, Hank could not baldly lie straight to his face.

Boris sighed, staring at Hank's bent head. "I'll have Dieter take you back to the guesthouse," Boris told him, again squeezing Hank's shoulders. "You need to sleep the rest of the day. I don't want to hear that you have moved out of your bed."

"What?" Hank demanded heatedly, his eyes suddenly flicking up towards Boris' face. Those eyes were greatly annoyed, maybe even angry, but Boris could live with that if it got Hank back to the guesthouse any time this century.

"You heard me. You need to rest. Surely, as a doctor, you _know _this."

Hank had to be the most frustrating doctor alive. Boris would have spanked the man if he weren't so ill—and if doing so wouldn't have been more erotic than he would have liked at this stage of their relationship.

Maybe spanking could come later.

"I can't just sleep all day. I have patients to see!" Hank snapped, shooting Boris a withering glare. Boris merely ignored the look. Finally, the good doctor relaxed against his grip and spoke much more calmly, "I can't run a business this way, Boris."

Maybe the man was calming enough to come to his senses. Boris gently but firmly moved his hands to Hank's forearms; he tightened his grip and lifted Hank out of his chair. As he could have predicted, had he thought about the matter, Hank tried to resist his movements, but he couldn't. Boris' muscles wouldn't budge. Even when Hank was completely healthy, Boris was stronger than the young doctor.

Right now, he obviously wasn't even approaching _completely healthy._

"Stop right there, Hank," Boris told the young man, frog-marching him straight to the door. "You are ill, and your patients will not be happy catching whatever you have." He knew this was a good tactic: focus on the patients' need, not Hank's, and he might be able to persuade the man to act sanely. "It is for their well-being as much as yours."

Of course, Boris really didn't _care_ about the patients' well being, but he would use that as his leverage if it got Hank to act like the rational person he usually was.

Standing beside Boris, Hank suddenly began blinking his eyes quickly. His color had completely escaped his face, making his normally fair skin look ashen. Another hacking cough ripped from his lungs, and Hank unconsciously leaned against Boris before swaying again.

Very little warning was given. Hank was standing, then he was crashing to the floor. Alarmed, Boris caught Hank right before his head smashed against the floor. His light brown lashes against white skin made him look even paler, and the light sheen on his face didn't help—nor did the wheezing gasps of his breath.

Just as Boris was getting ready to call an ambulance, love of privacy or not, Hank's glazed eyes slid open. He looked up at Boris, taking several seconds to focus his eyes. For a moment, he seemed to be trying to remember who Boris was and where he was.

"What . . . how did I end up on the floor?" a perplexed Hank asked, eyes widening as he looked around himself. In alarm, Boris almost shouted when his-all-too-stubborn Hank tried to sit up; instead, he simply pushed against the young man's chest until he remained firmly horizontal. Hank looked at him, eyes still confused, idly roaming around the office as if trying to remember what had happened. "I don't remember . . . did I trip and fall?"

Another harsh cough erupted, and Hank's body shook with the harsh motions. Boris gently stroked Hank's shoulders, trying to help ease the pain and comfort him.

"Hank, you're ill. You didn't trip—you passed out," Boris muttered softly, frowning. "I was just about to dial 911."

Hank stared at him with utter shock. Boris-I-will-not-call-an-ambulance nodded his head.

With a tired sigh, Boris studied his houseguest. Right now, he wasn't exactly sure what to do. He had never felt so helpless before, for he could not make Hank better. He was no doctor. He didn't even know if he should call an ambulance, call Doctor Jill Casey, or just take Hank back to the guesthouse. He simply didn't know what was best, which was an almost alien sensation for Boris. Even worse, apparently he couldn't even get the frustrating man to listen to him.

Of course, if Hank refused to be sensible, Boris was completely unafraid to force Hank to act sanely. He could always carry Hank to a near-by bed and leave one of his Mossad security agents to guard him.

Maybe they could shackle him to the bed. He smirked at the image.

"I'm not sick, Boris," Hank ridiculously tried to convince him. "If anything, it's just a minor case of the sniffles." While speaking, Hank tried to look completely healthy by smiling.

It didn't work.

Seconds later, Hank groaned and sat up just in time for another coughing fit to tear right through him. "I'm fine, really," he hoarsely assured Boris.

Boris stared at him in utter disbelief. The daft man called this _fine_?

He had obviously spent far too much company in his brother's presence if he was acting this inanely.

"Hank, I will take you to your guesthouse, and then you will rest, whether you like it or not." He glared at Hank. "Any urgent appointments or consultations will need to be directed to someone else. Doctor Casey could fill in if need be, I am sure."

In truth, Boris didn't like asking Jill Casey to help, for there was a bit of chemistry between Hank and Jill. Perhaps there was more than _a bit _of chemistry between the two. However, Boris had never had any problem with competition, and right now, Hank needed Jill's help. He would crush the opposition by showing Hank that Casey was utterly wrong for him later.

With a sigh, he pulled Hank to his feet and watched him wobble for a few moments. Boris then led him from the room. Hank coughed all the way down the hall, down the staircase, through the foyer, over the lawn, and into the guesthouse. Dieter appeared as if out of nowhere—the man was incredibly skilled at skulking—to help support Hank. Between the two of them, they managed to get Hank into bed.

* * *

_Next Chapter: Plan C Continued. _Boris cannot sleep, no matter what he does. So he pays Hank a visit and ends up staying the night in bed with him.

_Thanks to my reviewers!_ HiDiNgFrOmYou, There will definitely be a Plan D, eventually—one I'm in the middle of working on right now. Plan C will take Boris quite a bit of time to develop out, though, that scheming man! Aneska, I'm so glad to hear that you like the way this is coming together. I envision a nice, slow romance—one filled with all sorts of trials and tribulations. There will be some mushiness, some action/adventure, some hurt/comfort.

I agree that there is so much to play with in the development of both characters. Kits, I'm especially glad that you said Boris has so many different qualities. He is a dynamic character, from what I've seen on the show so far, and one I just couldn't help but draw with Hank. (I loved your description of Boris as having a gooey center!) Xelloss100, I loved your idea of working in some more Evan/Boris interactions. That could be fun! I'll have to see if I can work it into Plan D or E. And Sirmn82, thanks for note on how Hank is a strong character but one with vulnerability, too. They seem a perfect match in that way. Pan-Pan, I'm so glad you liked the protective side of Boris. The German watch dog came out of nowhere—one of those serendipitous writing moments! :-)


	4. Plan C: Stop the Nightmares

_Summary: _Intrigued by his new concierge doctor, Boris schemes on how to more fully integrate Hank into both the Hamptons and Boris' own life. One plan after the next leads to mixed failure and success. Poor Boris!

_A/N: _Just a short part of Plan C. The next chapter will be longer (**and rated M**) . . . Let me know how the first part of the chapter works; I was trying to enmesh real time with almost-but-not-quite nightmares: Boris is still halfway awake, but his mind keeps throwing all kinds of nasty images at him.

By the way, for this story, I originally thought Jill Casey was a doctor. However, the last episode of _Royal Pains _left me thinking she wasn't. Thus, for this story, assume it is a bit AU: Casey is a doctor, though maybe she hasn't practiced in some time. And despite the description of her as a succubus, I actually do like her . . . I just imagine Boris wouldn't, under these circumstances!

Finally, sorry it's been a bit long between postings. Real life was demanding my attention. How dare it!

**Chapter Four**

**Plan C:**

**Stop the Nightmares**

With an annoyed sigh, Boris stared at his clock and growled. Angrily, he cursed. After a moment's attempt at calming himself, the German noble at last concluded it was a lost cause and reached down to the floor. He threw his slipper at the abominable device, watching it slide to the ground. Its glowing numbers still mockingly informed him that it was 12:13 a.m.: just fifteen minutes after the last time he had looked.

Those fifteen minutes were straight from the depths of hell, from what Boris could tell, complete with horrifying images replaying constantly in the turmoiled landscape of his mind.

Wanting to bang his head against the wall, Boris instead pounded his fist into his pillow. It did little to make him feel better. Minutes later, he threw himself back onto his bed. Getting to sleep seemed impossible. He hated nights like these, when he could not rest no matter how tired he was. He was exhausted, and he had a full day scheduled for tomorrow. He had several appointments with lawyers, not to mention research into new investments. He could ill afford another night of sleeplessness.

Sleepless nights seemed to be increasing exponentially since he met Hank, his worry for the man keeping him up all too often. It was even worse now that Hank was ill. Thus, despite the late hour, the recluse found himself unable to sleep. There was too much on his mind. All he could hear, repeating over and over in his mind as if he were still in the guesthouse, were Hank's painful coughs. They sounded like he had glass coating his lungs, his words sandpaper against the throat.

Cursing, Boris combed one hand through his already messy hair. He closed his eyes and ran his hands over his face. Surely, Hank would be all right now, given that he was resting. He had made sure of this, asking Dieter to tell him if the younger man left the guesthouse. Hank had not, and according to Dieter, the guesthouse looked quiet, which seemed to indicate that Hank was, indeed, sleeping.

Unfortunately, sleep still laughing scornfully at him, Boris found his eyes slipping open again. Today's events had done nothing to make him sleep better. Hank's image would not disappear from the German's fatigued mind. Why had Hank not simply told him that he was ill? Despite their differences and sometimes somewhat heated arguments, Hank had to know that Boris was his friend or, at the very least, his ally. He had to know that the German noble would not want him working when he was ill. Boris had a solid work ethic, but so did Hank; this did not include, however, working when one was close to passing out on Boris' floor.

Boris sighed, forcing himself to shut his eyes and relax. He tried counting down from 100, which someone had told him worked. 100 . . . 99 . . . 98_ . . . he wondered what time his call to Japan was supposed to be . . . _97 . . . 96 _. . . maybe Hank's fever was higher than it had been . . . _95_ . . . perhaps he should go see Hank, make sure he was still breathing . . . _94_ . . . _93 . . . _he wondered how many seconds there were in a year . . . _92 . . . 91 . . . _m__aybe he should get the dining room redecorated, something in light green like Hank's eyes_ . . . 90 . . . _he should drag Hank to Cuba . . . _89 . . . _this was obviously working well . . ._

Several minutes ticked by before his eyes flew open again, his heart beating quickly. Every time he shut his eyes, his mind insisted on brutally dragging before him, in annoyingly vivid technicolor, images of the alarming scene from earlier that afternoon. Only now, those images were much worse, much more ominous. This last scene had been the worst of them all.

In his mind, he imagined it was early the next day. He was pacing in his office, glancing up briefly when Dieter entered the room to hand him more important documents to read. A quick glance showed that they were his bank's monthly financing report. He waved Dieter off and looked at the document before staring out the window. Nothing made sense as he perused the material. He found himself reading the same words over and over. Frustrated, he at last decided that the only thing to do was to go see Hank, make sure he was doing well. Perhaps then he could concentrate.

And from there, the images became much more troubling. There was no chance of sleeping, not with these images haunting him. Their disturbing content unfolded before him, and he was unable to stop it.

In his mind, a sleep-deprived version of himself knocked on the door to his guesthouse. He entered the building when no one arrived to greet him. His eyes glanced around the main floor only to find it completely empty. It was actually as expected, for if Hank was doing anything he had told him to do, he was deep asleep in bed.

He trudged up the stairs to Hank's bedroom. His eyes were drawn to the terrifyingly still figure of his love.

An exhausted Boris watched himself gently shake Hank's figure, wanting to see those hazel eyes once more. Hank didn't waken. As he looked closer, he could see blood soaking the pillow where Hank's mouth had rested—and blood darkened his love's chin. Hank was breathing, but barely. The uneven breaths seemed like they were being squeezed out of his body.

It was the most disturbing of images, terrifying in its very repetition. Boris absolutely could not sleep with _this image _on constant replay. It didn't stop there, of course; no, it continued.

In this dreamscape, panic tore through him, fierce and undeniable. He desperately called for an ambulance. Almost like a dream, where everything was disjointed and no one could approach any given goal, he kept trying to tell them where he was, but they couldn't find him. They kept asking where his estate was, what color its fence was, what road his manor faced, how many cars were in front and what color—absolutely absurd questions, given how well-known he was in the community. They asked and asked and asked, getting nowhere in a repetition of the same questions and answers.

Horrified, he waited and waited for the ambulance to come, clutching Hank in his arms. As he watched this scene unfold, Boris, too, could feel the terror, the lack of hope. He continued screaming as he watched Hank's slim figure struggle to breathe, as he rubbed his hands against the burning hot skin of his love. More blood bubbled out of Hank's lips, dripping once more down his chin, and he wiped the blood away with fingers turned scarlet.

Then, suddenly, inexplicably, Hank was no longer breathing—and terror lit through Boris' mind. He couldn't even tell if the terror was his or merely the mental version of him. It truly didn't matter, though, for the terror was real, was potent enough for sweat to prick his skin and for his heart to race.

The images were increasingly devastating the longer he tried to fall asleep. In one version, Hank was choking on his own blood; in another, he was tumbling down the stairs, unable to breathe. Next, Boris figured that he would probably see Hank's ghost tapping at the window to his room, sent here to haunt him for the rest of his life. Boris simply could take it no longer. Shaking, Boris flung his blankets aside and reached for his slippers and robe. His feet barely made a noise as he sprinted to the guesthouse.

Not even bothering to be quiet, he flung the door to the guesthouse open and purposefully rushed inside. All was silent, hushed in sleep. His eyes quickly flicked upstairs. The scene was disturbingly similar to his earlier imaginings. Boris shook his head, finding the similarity jarring. However, there was one difference, and it filled Boris with at least some hope. From the weak light shining from the hall on the second floor, he could see that the door to Hank's room was ajar. Hank was clearly awake.

On the other hand, no light was required for Boris to hear the hoarse, painful cough that sounded like knives on a chalkboard.

Carefully, he peaked into the open door. It looked like Hank had done as instructed and remained in bed. That was one good thing. However, any relief that he might have had from this was quickly replaced by concern. The wheezing and hacking cough were unmistakable signs that Hank was worse.

Quietly, Boris walked towards his guest, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Hank, you sound worse than you did. Is there anything I can do for you?" Boris asked cautiously.

He moved to Hank's side, alarmed at what he saw. Now that he was getting a closer look at the doctor, it was increasingly clear that he was very ill. His hair was damp against his skin, which was utterly bereft of color. His skin shone with sweat, and he was moving restlessly in his sleep. He had seen simple colds, but this wasn't one. His guess was supported by two containers of medicine—one pills, the other cough syrup—that he saw sitting on Hank's nightstand. They were clearly medicines available by prescription only.

Why on earth had the young man been up when he was this ill?

With a concerned and somewhat exasperated sigh, Boris bent down and placed his right hand across Hank's forehead. Burning heat met his flesh, and Boris stared. This was notgood. His doctor was practically radiating heat, and when Hank's eyes finally opened into tiny slits of hazel, he noted that the younger man's gaze seemed unfocused. He looked miserable, and Boris carefully squeezed his hand, hoping to give support; Boris was pleased when Hank smiled up at him despite the misery, gratitude shining in his eyes. Gently, he began to stroke Hank's hair back, trying to ease the pain and bring comfort to him while he also pulled the blankets closer around Hank's shoulders.

The doctor just seemed so fragile. Boris simply wanted to protect him.

After a moment's thought, Boris moved to the bathroom to find a washcloth and wet it. He returned just as quickly, placing the wet cloth on Hank's flushed face and gently rubbing the younger man's head. "Can you hear me, doctor?" Boris softly asked, trying to catch Hank's tired gaze.

Hank's eyelids fluttered shut, but not before he rasped, "I-I think I might have a-a cold, Boris." He swallowed hard before adding, "Maybe a bit more than a slight one."

Unable to stop himself, Boris simply stared at Hank. _He thought he had a cold? Maybe more than a slight one? _At any other time and with any other person, Boris would have delivered a snide remark, but not now, not when Hank was so clearly ill. He had to shake his head, though, at the bizarre statement.

Maybe he was delirious?

"I'll stay here, just to make sure your _slight cold_—" he couldn't resist the heavy sarcasm in his voice, no matter how much he loved and adored Hank "—doesn't make you more uncomfortable." _Or more dead,_ he added silently. He was beginning to wonder if he should call Jill Casey.

Mumbling softly, Hank finally nodded and curled back into his covers, almost like he was trying to hide himself. Boris watched the pain ease from Hank's face, smiling softly when his brown lashes fluttered against his pale skin. He seemed more peaceful, and Boris hoped that his presence made him feel safer. Boris was more than glad to help calm him, to comfort his love.

He just wished that Divya or Casey were here. At least they would know what to do. Boris was far from the best person to watch over someone who was ill; he had rarely ever done so, not even for his past lovers. He usually called in a nurse or a staff member—and completely without regret. Boris was many things, but no one would characterize him as patient or kind. The rare times he had tried to stay when someone was ill, he had gotten annoyed and threatening, only to be semi-politely told to leave the room. He always regretted staying, thinking it was best if he just stayed away.

However, Boris reasoned that he had never truly cared for someone enough to stay when that person was ill: until now. With Hank, he found he wanted to stay—no, that he _needed _to stay.

Finally, Boris made a decision. He wasn't going to leave, but he also wasn't going to call Jill Casey until absolutely necessary. Instead, Boris climbed onto the bed, sliding in beside Hank's now-still figure. He frowned at the harsh sound of Hank's breath. It almost seemed to crackle inside Hank's chest.

Sighing, Boris made a disgusted face, reaching a rather unpleasant decision. Hank obviously could not continue like this. Thus, Boris would give the good doctor until morning to start improving—or he would call Casey, no matter how he deplored the idea of _that woman's_ greedy little hands on his love.

Boris scowled. Some things were simply unavoidable, though maybe he could fly in a specialist from New York instead. Anything had to be better than that succubus Casey.

Concerned, Boris continued to stroke Hank's hair back from his face, trying to bring comfort to the one he loved. He alternated between stroking Hank's face and gently rubbing his chest in relaxing circles.

* * *

_Next Chapter: Plan C Continued. _Doctor Hank Lawson refuses to behave when sick, and Boris learns that maybe he didn't control Eddie as much as he thought. Oh, and there is some nudity . . . but not in the way Boris was hoping. **Chapter 5 will be rated M for some adult content.**

_Thanks reviewers!_ I was thrilled at the wonderful reviews. Boris will continue plotting and scheming, but Hank is resolved to interfere. :-)


	5. Plan C: Make him Listen to Reason

_Summary: _Intrigued by his new concierge doctor, Boris schemes on how to more fully integrate Hank into both the Hamptons and Boris' own life. One plan after the next leads to mixed failure and success. Poor Boris!

_A/N:_ Since Idon't have a medical background, I am relying on such sources as WebMD for my information. My apologies if there are any inconsistencies because of this.

Regarding Boris' title, I found several sources saying he was a baron. One of the sources was an interview with Mark Feuerstein, who plays Hank. Thus, I'm going with that title. And Jill Casey is a doctor in this story; I'm still unsure if she is or not in _Royal Pains._

Chapter Five concludes the Plan C arc.

_Rating: _M for mature content (though not explicit). It might be okay to have gone with a lower rating, but I thought it was wiser to err on the side of caution.

**Chapter Five**

**Plan C:**

**Make him Listen to Reason**

Hours later, Boris jerked awake to find himself still stretched across the bed in Hank's room. One arm had loosely encircled Hank's shoulders while the other hung limply over the bed's edge. Somehow, he had fallen asleep. Boris didn't know how, for he had definitely planned to watch over Hank all night, but the silence, the darkness had lulled him to sleep. Even Hank's ragged breathing had almost acted as a lullaby to him, a repeated sound that eventually pushed him to doze.

When his eyes sprung open, staring into darkness, Boris wasn't entirely certain what had awoken him. There was nothing obvious, at least not at first. Everything was still dark, still muted in silence. Nothing seemed out of place. However, as Boris' mind awoke more completely, he quickly understood what had pulled him from his sleep.

Hank was not in bed.

Alarm shot through him, and Boris quickly bolted from the bed. His mind was slightly numb from his abrupt awakening, but that didn't really matter. All that was important was Hank. Where was the man?

A dim light shining from the side—as well as abrasive, hacking coughs—suggested where Hank might be. Quickly, Boris headed towards the bathroom, grateful to see that the door was already open so he wouldn't have to worry about privacy issues. He found Hank standing by the bathroom counter, coughing harshly as he tried to drink from a glass of water.

Actually, _standing_ was far too charitable. In actuality, it looked like Hank was completely slumped over the counter, looking suspiciously close to doing a face plant on the floor.

Boris was at his side in seconds. He gently rubbed Hank's back, wincing as the young man continued to cough. The sound was wet, almost like fluids bubbled in Hank's lungs. Hank was definitely getting worse.

Gently, Boris eased Hank to the floor, taking the glass of water from him and placing it on the cold floor beside his trembling figure. After making sure he was safely seated, Boris left the bathroom for a minute, hurrying to Hank's bedroom. He remembered seeing the doctor's iPhone there earlier; when he found the iPhone on Hank's nightstand, he quickly searched its address book and smiled. Doctor Jill Casey's number was listed towards the top of important contacts—but, Boris noticed with pleasure, below his own—and he called her.

Five minutes later, after telling Jill what was happening and how to get clearance onto the estate, Boris called security to inform them of Jill Casey's impending arrival. That done, he swiftly headed back into the bathroom.

Still coughing, Hank looked up at him and tried a welcoming wave as Boris entered. Boris smiled slightly, sighing. He loved this young man, but Hank could drive a sane person crazy. Why had he allowed his illness to get to this point? He was a _doctor;_ presumably, he knew better.

Well, there was always that old expression that doctors made the worst patients.

"S-sorry to keep you up," the young man rasped, eyes in slits. "I'll b-be fine."

Boris wasn't sure which was worse: the chattering teeth or the barely-able-to-sit-up exhaustion. He rolled his eyes. "I have no problem being here, Hank," he told him. He didn't even bother dealing with the ludicrous _I'll be fine._ At least he wasn't saying he _was _fine.

Hank cleared his throat, shaking his head. He seemed about to say something, opened his mouth, then shut it again as a painful cough racked his body.

"Is there anything you need, doctor?" he asked softly. He watched him with concern, noticing that the paroxysm seemed to be worsening.

Unfortunately, Hank didn't get the chance to respond. Instead, he simply continued to cough.

Carefully, Boris knelt beside Hank, placing his arms around the man's shoulders. Hank shook in his arms as he coughed repeatedly, gripping the edge of his flannel nightshirt when the coughing just continued mercilessly. Hank rubbed his chest, his head hanging loosely; Boris knew that his entire body had to hurt after that amount of coughing. The doctor looked woozy, even a bit confused, and he shivered weakly in Boris' arms.

"Shh . . . easy. Just relax and let me take care of you." With the softest touch, Boris lovingly brushed Hank's hair back, carefully pushing it out of his eyes, then helping him drink the remaining water in his glass. Hank did not stir, only muttering exhaustedly. "I'm here, right with you. You are never alone. _A__rmer Liebling." _[1]

With an intense body-breaking cough that sounded like it would tear the man's throat into tiny ribbons, Hank abruptly swayed where he was sitting. Moments later, he pitched forward, eyes shut and face so white Boris swore he was glowing in the dark. A swearing Boris carefully eased him further into his arms to keep him from hitting the floor. Utterly gentle, he placed Hank's head against his shoulder, tilting his head back so that he could breathe more easily. His fingers caressed the doctor's throat and chest, trying to help him breathe better. Helplessly, Hank tilted his head against Boris' shoulder, trembling beads of moisture leaking from the corners of his eyes.

"Oh, God," Hank wheezed, words hoarse, "I hate this."

"I know, Hank, but you will get better soon," Boris assured him. He would make sure of it. Fingertips almost so soft that they could not be felt, Boris began to rub Hank's chest. Hank tilted his head back as another cough wracked his entire body. "Doctor, I'll be right back. Stay still, all right?" he spoke softly, rubbing Hank's arms.

Hank looked at him curiously, one eyebrow rising half-heartedly. After a moment, he gave Boris a weak nod.

Moving quickly, Boris temporarily rested the young man against the bathroom vanity before stepping towards the bathtub. He was going to give the doctor a bath, one of his favorite remedies for when he was feeling miserable. While Boris knew that a bath might raise Hank's fever, he thought the moisture might help him breathe. It might also help with the pain. Right now, Boris was more concerned with Hank's breathing than his fever.

He was quick to fill the tub with warm water, making sure that it was not scalding. Steam drifted lazily around the tub. When it was about half-full, he turned off the tap and frowned, considering. Right now, Hank was not well enough to take a bath on his own; he could all too easily drown. Clearly, Boris would need to take the bath with him.

However, the real question was whether they should both be clothed. Finding himself in the tub with a naked Boris might be just a bit too much for the already ailing doctor. Hank didn't even realize Boris' true feelings for him, and even if he did, the German was fairly certain Hank was not ready to be naked with him. Indeed, knowing Boris' feelings for him might make Hank feel more awkward, not less. Thus, Boris decided to take the middle ground. He quickly disrobed down to his silk pajamas. It would be uncomfortable, certainly, but it was well worth any discomfort if it helped Hank.

Hank he completely stripped bare, not wanting Hank to catch further chill in wet sleeping garments. Boris forced himself not to look at what was not yet his, especially given Hank's condition. His love felt so delicate in his arms, and he was both concerned and pleased that Hank didn't seem discomfited by being naked in Boris' presence. Normally, Hank would have been spitting fire. Had Hank been even moderately aware of what was happening, Boris probably would have gotten a firm knee to the groin for his efforts.

Very cautiously, Boris climbed into the tub. He sat down with Hank in his arms and then positioned the younger man until Hank was leaning against his torso, his head rolling lightly against his chest. Hank seemed startled for a moment—Boris assumed because he was sharing the bath while naked as the day he was born—but after a second's squirming, Hank eased into his arms quietly. He coughed, and Boris again gently rubbed his love's chest.

Bare skin passed like silk under his fingertips, and Boris found himself exploring the smooth flesh with careful, gentle fingers. His fingers trailed over arms and shoulders, edging down to Hank's hips to keep the doctor firmly in place. Despite the circumstances, Boris could not resist relishing the chance to hold his love, to caress his skin almost reverently. It came as no surprise that his doctor was perfect, with skin unmarred and muscles that were well-defined even if Hank was rather slender.

As he saw his love so vulnerable, Boris had to remind himself that Hank was ill—and that Boris was not to enjoy his time with Hank naked in his arms, at least _not too much_. He especially had to remind himself of this when his fingers touched Hank's nipples and skimmed over his delicate ribcage, which heaved beneath his touch. Hank's chest was notheaving because of sexual need or erotic ecstasy; it was heaving because the young doctor could barely breathe.

After about ten minutes of soaking, Hank sighed softly. Boris watched his love inhale the steamy air, and he continued to rub Hank's chest with the gentlest touch. Hank's chest arched in pain when another coughing fit struck, continuing for several long minutes. He moaned, eyes fluttering open.

"Careful," Boris cautioned, softly massaging his forehead and skull. He smiled when he saw some of the pained lines ease from Hank's face. "Take shallow breaths. Slowly and carefully." He thought that was right, at least. Boris gently played with the doctor's curls as he continued to message Hank's head, trying to ease his pain with the simple knowledge that he was there for him and would always be.

Silence hung between them for about five minutes, only broken by Hank's grating breaths. Suddenly, Hank started splashing in the bath, eyes looking around the bathroom dazedly.

"I'm sorry, Boris . . . when did you get here?" Hank whispered hoarsely, rubbing at his eyes. He seemed to just realize that Boris was with him, his hazy gaze clearing. Boris wasn't sure whether to be alarmed that it took Hank this long to note that he was there—or grateful that Hank was lucid enough to recognize he was not alone.

How had Hank been speaking to him several minutes ago?

Steadily, trying not to frighten Hank, Boris replied, "Several hours ago. I came to check on you." As Hank frowned, Boris squeezed his shoulders. "You were needing someone to watch over you. I stayed."

Hank's eyes drifted shut for a moment while he pondered Boris' words.

"Is the bath helping?" Boris asked, trying to rouse his ailing doctor. Hank needed the rest, but Boris also needed to make sure that the bath was helping rather than hurting. "How is your breathing?"

The doctor mumbled something completely incoherent. Hank tried a deep breath only to cough. Exhaustion darkened the skin just under his eyes when he looked up at Boris. "Hurts, 'oris," he managed to rasp, swallowing hard just to speak.

"I know it does, dear one." He added the soft _dear one_ in hopes that Hank might remember something from this night—but also trusting that it would not overly disturb him. "Just try to sleep. Rest. I will be right with you the whole time."

Hank's brow furrowed, probably because he was considering Boris calling him _dear one._ Moments later, he seemed to set it aside for later consideration and again moaned. "Can't," he grated.

Boris rubbed Hank's forehead, feeling the warmth seep against his fingers. "Shh . . . you need to rest. I will not leave you, no matter what." He simply didn't say the full truth: that if his doctor allowed him to, he would shelter Hank always and forever. "You just need to close your eyes and rest."

"N-no, no rest," Hank replied drowsily. A cough ripped through him, and Boris just rubbed his chest, up and down over and over. After a few minutes of silence, only broken by soft coughs and moans from time to time, Boris started to massage Hank's throat.

"Easy, Hank," Boris gentled. His hands continued to rub Hank's throat, and his voice was very tender. "Why can't you rest, _m__ein Geliebter_?" [1]

A long pause passed between them, filled with harsh coughs. Boris merely continued to rub the doctor's spasming chest.

"Can't . . . 'MED . . . have to save . . ." Hank's disjointed words were almost incomprehensible. Boris narrowed his eyes as he tried to understand them. Hank was absolutely making no sense.

Boris frowned.

"Have clients . . . must see . . . Divya gone . . . your file to . . . review . . ." mumbled an exhausted Hank, barely connecting ideas. His eyes were shut, the words spoken between coughs.

Abruptly, Boris found himself more furious than he had been in months, maybe even years. He finally understood what Hank's panting voice was saying. Wondering how it had gotten this bad, he rolled his eyes and shook his head. Hank was being utterly impossible. If this had been any other patient, Hank would have tanned his hide by now.

Right now, Hank literally couldn't even sit up straight—indeed, he was so sick that Boris refused to let him take a bath alone—and he was worrying about HankMED. And if the doctor even _thought_ that Boris was going to let him review his file or see clients like this, Hank was severely delusional. Or, perhaps, he was severely hallucinating. Whatever the case, Boris certainly was _not _going to let him work in this condition.

HankMED would still be there after his illness; if any emergencies arose, Boris was fairly certain that Jill Casey would fill in for him. Though she might be Boris' competition, there was no doubt that she cared for Hank.

Boris forced himself to release his anger, knowing it would do no one any good. Hank was ill and was probably acting irrationally because of his illness. Boris squeezed the young man's slender shoulders, kissing his warm forehead. It was the most obvious physical affection he had ever shown Hank, and he knew that Hank would be curious about it, even in his half-aware state. "What? You think I'm going to let you do anything in _this _condition? Obviously, you need to rest, Hank. You need to recuperate."

Strands of short dark hair dripped against Hank's face, and Hank's gaze looked hazily towards the door. He wiggled in Boris' grasp, legs moving haphazardly, as if he were trying to get out of the bath. Boris was abruptly very, very glad that he had worn his pajamas, for Hank's wiggling was frankly stimulating certain parts of his anatomy that had heretofore behaved remarkably well. He grated his teeth together, clamping down a completely inappropriate groan at the friction on his groin.

_Oh, hell, _Boris thought helplessly. Grimacing, Boris forced down yet another moan by biting his lower lip, his own breaths quickening. _Dear God help. _If his love didn't stop wriggling, Boris was going to jump him, sick or not.

He tried to think completely non-arousing thoughts: ice floes, Dieter in a purple thong (the thought was quite repulsive, actually), wilting flowers. Nothing seemed to help, not with a naked, slippery Hank writhing like an eel right against his groin.

Did he mention that Hank was naked? And very tantalizing?

Silently, Boris groaned. He tried to stealthily move his hips just slightly away from Hank's back. Unfortunately, this only made things worse when Hank moved right with him.

"Can't. Don't . . . have time," Hank declared, moving again and completely oblivious to Boris' growing problem. "Gotta' move . . . now."

"Shhh," Boris shushed. He bit his lips while Hank writhed some more. Gently, Boris nestled Hank in his arms, trying to ease the struggling. Hank's fever would only rise if he continued to struggle . . . and it certainly would not be the _only thing rising, _either, and rather mortifyingly. More than it already was, at least, which was humiliating enough as it was. He had not had his hormones driving his body's responses this much since he was a teenager. "Sleep, Hank. Divya is taking care of your business in New York, and I will ask Jill Casey to fill in for you here."

Hank softly whimpered. "But . . . so many people . . . Evan gone . . . genetic disease . . ."

With that, Hank again started to fight him, trying to escape his grip. Boris simply continued to hold him, willing down his damnably inconvenient erection.

"Hank, doctor, listen to me. You must rest," he repeated, continuing to soothe the feverish young man, holding him tight and ignoring his own needs. He just hoped that Hank could ignore them, too. "My file can wait until you are completely better. The disease, as you know, will not kill me this instant. It will just make my muscles somewhat less strong and more likely to paralyze."

Less strength was truly horrifying to Boris—even more terrifying than Hank realizing just how attracted to him Boris was—but even more so was Hank suffering like this.

A violent coughing fit tore from Hank's lips, and the younger man convulsed in his arms, his chest straining. The long eyelashes squeezed shut, and Hank jerked in the tub. Water splashed to the floor, but Boris held him steady, stroking his chest and desperately trying to ease his pain. He steadily refused to even think about what the feel of Hank's body in his arms was doing to his own desires.

"No," Hank finally managed, his body still quivering from the coughing fit. "He . . . Evan has bank-bankrupt us . . ."

Alarmed, Boris stared at this, his eyes wider than ever. All thoughts of aching arousal fled. _What?_

"My . . . fa-father . . . took our . . . money . . . Divya . . . Divya getting married . . ."

Rage tore through Boris, and he had to hold himself completely still to make sure that Hank did not feel his anger. Hank would probably think the rage was directed at him when it absolutely was not. How could he not have heard about the father stealing Hank's money? The very thought made Boris want to wring the very breath out of Hank's father.

Apparently, the fool had not taken Boris' warning seriously.

Why hadn't Hank come to him? Why hadn't he asked for Boris' help? He knew that the good doctor did not know how Boris felt about him—he couldn't know, for Boris had been exceedingly close with his feelings, waiting for the right moment—but he had hoped that Hank felt comfortable asking him for advice or help when he needed it. Maybe he had just discovered the problem? That might explain why Evan had looked so guilty recently, not to mention why Hank had barely been on speaking terms with the brother to whom he usually seemed so close.

This might also explain the extent of Hank's illness as well as his unwillingness to stay home and rest. If HankMED were bankrupt, Hank would not feel he could take care of his own health. He would feel driven to meet with clients and keep the money flowing into their empty coffers. Indeed, if he were working extra hours, his body's immune system was probably compromised. He was likely not eating well, and the stress of zero finances was probably compromising his system even more.

A thoroughly shocked Boris shook his head, momentarily overwhelmed. This explained so much.

After looking down, Boris wryly reflected that this entire sordid affair with Eddie had at least one good side to it: he was no longer fighting his stubbornly growing erection.

"Have . . . have to see clients . . . have to . . ." Hank mumbled, wheezing. He coughed roughly, wincing from the pain.

Boris moved his hands up and down Hank's chest, again trying to ease the pain. He continued to do so until Hank's coughs eased. "Shh. Easy, doctor. Shh. Things will work themselves out, and I will help you in any way I can." Hank might not understand the depths to which Boris would go to help him, but Boris' words seemed to ease his fears. Gratified, Boris watched a peaceful look spread across Hank's face, and he knew he had helped his love.

When Boris loved someone, he would do anything for that person.

Hank's eyes blinked at him in wonder, and he tilted his face to get a better look at Boris. His mind seemed to be rewinding what Boris had just said. "What? Why would . . . you help?"

He probably should not have admitted that he would help, though it was the only thing Boris could think of to calm his precious love. Desperately ill and practically unable to breathe, let alone speak, his doctor was going to force him to admit his feelings, wasn't he?

Frowning, Boris shook his head. No, Hank was simply not ready to hear about Boris' feelings for him, especially not when he was this ill. He would have to wait.

"I will always help you, Hank, because you are my friend," he murmured truthfully—even if he did see Hank as more than a friend. Not even twenty minutes ago, his body had certainly affirmed his choice. He saw Hank as a life partner, an eventual lover, but that could come later. Boris tenderly rubbed Hank's chest and throat. "Real friends are rare for me, Hank, and I always protect and help my friends."

Hank licked dry lips, cringing slightly as he coughed harshly. Boris continued to carefully rub his chest and arms, and Hank again relaxed. "Don't . . . don't want you . . . to have to . . . help with . . . money. Don't . . . please."

While Boris understood the request, he knew that he could so easily help his love. He was a billionaire. What good was all his money if he could not spend it on the one he loved? Hank's needs were limited, his spending habits very controlled. Boris had absolutely no problem giving him the money to get back on his feet—he just needed to find a way for Hank to be comfortable in accepting his assistance. "Hank, let me help," he whispered. "It will be no problem for me to help."

"N-no," Hank stubbornly refused, shaking his head. He managed to start another round of coughing. "Already he-helping. Guesthouse."

Boris internally ranted at his love's obstinacy, but he kept his voice whisper-soft when he again encouraged, "Let me help. Just a little." He rubbed Hank's shoulders. "You can even pay me back later. It would be my honor."

Naturally, he would do everything he could to help Hank forget about the _pay it back later _clause.

Hank blinked right before his eyes eased shut. Watching him, Boris drifted his fingertips over the dark circles under Hank's eyes. Hank sighed at the gentle touch, and his labored breathing began to even out. He was falling asleep. "What—what were we talking . . . ?" The doctor's voice eased into silence.

As softly as he could, Boris hushed, "Shhh. Sleep, Doctor." He leaned closer to Hank's ear and murmured, "Accept my help, and you can rest. I will always help."

Hank seemed to have completely lost the track of their conversation. He sighed, eyes once more drifting shut before mumbling, "Sure . . ."

Boris grinned. Well, to Boris, _sure_translated as agreement.

His grin widened. He would deposit a quarter of a million into HankMED's account tonight, then argue with Hank later, when the younger man was better. What was the saying? 'It was better to beg forgiveness than to ask permission?' Yes, Boris entirely agreed with the sentiment. He even looked forward to the argument with Hank that would inevitably follow, as he always loved a good fight. [2]

Boris smiled as Hank continued to rest peacefully against his chest. It was the first time Hank had seemed peaceful since Boris had seen him in his office. "Easy. Just rest."

Hank mumbled softly, cuddling against the arms that encircled his chest. The sleepy move made Boris smile. "Wh-what . . ."

Hank sighed, then remained very still.

"Yes, sweet love?" Boris risked the English version of _Geliebter_, knowing how close to sleep Hank was right now. However, the young man did not stir. Boris looked down to find that Hank had at last succumbed to sleep. "Rest peacefully, my love," Boris spoke with a tender kiss to Hank's forehead. His doctor remained asleep, face flushed with fever but breathing somewhat easier than it had been.

Boris would be happy just to see Hank sleep an hour undisturbed.

Unfortunately, that was not to be. Several minutes later, he heard the soft call of Doctor Casey's voice. As softly as possible, he called her upstairs.

"Hey, Boris, Hank, I'm here to check up on you," Casey said, walking through the upstairs hall. Boris heard her heading to the bedroom. A moment later, her voice started heading closer to them. "You're in the bathroom, aren't you?"

Boris softly replied in the affirmative, then waited as she opened the door and peaked inside. To say that her surprised look was priceless would be understatement. He had to stop himself from ripping her eyes out as she openly ogled Hank's naked body.

That was truly unprofessional of her, was it not? Boris mentally assured himself that he would remember this travesty later.

Hank stirred in his arms, his eyes slowly opening. He looked at the door, blinking several times before Casey's form seemed to come into focus. Boris tenderly caressed Hank's chest and shoulders, waiting for him to come more fully awake.

"Jill . . . what?" he choked out, voice rough and painful sounding. He moved his head slightly, but then flinched. Boris slid his caress to Hank's forehead, thinking he might be suffering from a severe headache.

She smiled. "I'm here to take a look at you. Boris was concerned," she told him, walking into the room and shutting the door behind her. "How are you, Hank?"

"A bit . . . on the rough . . . side," he managed after a moment. Boris was pleased; _a bit on the rough side _was tantamount to the doctor admitting he felt like he had sandpaper for lungs, at least where Hank was concerned. A coughing fit struck, and Hank almost slid to the bottom of the tub. Boris just kept his arms firmly around the shaking figure. "Sorry . . . to call . . . so . . . late," he added after the cough had eased. He paused, frowning. "W-wait . . . did I c-call you?"

Boris smiled slightly at the doctor's confusion, continuing to massage Hank's forehead.

"It's no problem, and Boris called me," she told him. She was at their side very quickly, filling the glass on the counter with water and handing it to Hank. The young man shakily drank a few sips, and Boris carefully supported his arm. "You're looking pretty rough today, Hank. Let me take a look at you."

She knelt down beside them, feeling Hank's forehead.

"Would . . . it be . . . better for me . . . to get out?" Hank breathed roughly, blinking his eyes at Doctor Casey. Boris found himself holding Hank closer to him, rubbing his ribs tenderly, fingertips drifting to his lower abdomen. His fingertips then darted possessively over Hank's slender hips, caressing the pale flesh. He made sure that Casey's hazel eyes noticed his gestures.

Casey cleared her throat, watching Boris' hands. Boris gave her a subtle smile. "Well . . . does the bath seem to be helping, Hank?" she finally asked. Her eyes were notably focused on Hank's face, but Boris had the feeling that she was having some difficulty keeping strictly clinical when Hank, a very handsome young man in whom she was already interested, was completely naked in front of her. He almost smirked at the thought.

Hank blinked slowly, eyes heavy before giving a weak nod. Boris didn't think that Hank had felt any of the tense undercurrent in the room.

She smiled. "Then stay in. I'll give you the exam here." Her eyes looked at Boris. "I may need some help from you, though, baron."

Interesting. She was being much more formal than she normally was with him, for Casey typically called him _Boris_ rather than _b__aron_. Pondering the significance of this change, Boris simply nodded.

First, she pulled the stethoscope from around her neck and placed it on Hank's chest. Several minutes passed as she silently listened to his heart. Boris watched as she moved the stethoscope over his chest, her touch gentle. Hank almost fell asleep.

"All right," Casey began, standing up for a moment. Hank focused on her drowsily. "Your heart is sounding pretty good, Hank. Respirations are faster than I would like, but understandable given your condition." Her fingers moved to his throat, and Boris watched her take his love's pulse.

She didn't say anything, but Boris suspected Hank's pulse wasn't as strong as she would like. She was frowning slightly.

"Baron, I need you to lean Hank forward," she told him, kneeling down at his side—towards the back of the tub—and again readying her stethoscope. "Keep an arm around his chest to keep him from plunging too far forward."

The German nobleman nodded. Carefully, Boris pushed Hank's torso forward until his back was completely exposed. He kept his right arm circled around Hank's chest while the left arm circled his lower abdomen and hips. Had Hank been a bit more alert, he probably would have reacted against the slightly compromising position—a glance down Hank's back exposed his buttocks while Boris' left hand brushed against his dark pubic hair—but he didn't even seem to notice.

Casey swallowed hard, and Boris caught her gaze looking down Hank's spine. He shot her an annoyed glare, and she winced. Clearing her throat, she softly commanded Hank to breathe deeply.

Hank, completely unaware of the silent exchange between Boris and Casey, complied. Almost immediately, the deep breath turned into a hacking, painful cough that racked his body for at least a good minute. Boris glowered at Casey once more, wondering if the woman's position as hospital administrator had completely eroded her abilities as a doctor.

She rubbed Hank's back until the painful coughs eased. "One more time, Hank," she instructed him gently, eyes concerned. "Just one more deep breath."

Not too surprisingly, the second deep breath ended in another painful coughing paroxysm. Tears were freely streaming down Hank's white face when Boris had had enough. He eased the young man back against his chest, rubbing Hank's arms and chest until the doctor seemed able to stop coughing. When the coughs finally eased, he caressed Hank's forehead, trying to ease his pain.

"Sorry, Hank," Casey apologized, real regret darkening her eyes. Boris almost forgave her, for he knew she _did _need to listen to Hank's lungs. He just wished she had found a better way to do so. "It looks like the bronchitis has gone into pneumonia," she told him.

Groggily, Hank nodded, coughing softly now and then. After a second's thought, Casey handed him the glass of water, which seemed to help.

As Hank was settling down, Casey went to the other end of the tub and carefully pulled out Hank's left foot. Boris stared at her, wondering what the daft woman thought she was doing, but she simply placed her fingertips against his love's foot. She repeated the process with the right foot, being very gentle in her touch.

Casey woke Hank with a shake of her hand against his arm. Hank's eyes fluttered open before he stared at her with sleepy eyes.

"You're very ill, Hank, but you don't need to be in the hospital," she told him, smiling slightly. "Your pulse is good: not as strong as I would like, but fair. I can hear fluids building in your lungs, though, so we need to get you started on tetracycline right now. I'll replace the erythromycin you were on earlier with something a bit stronger. I'll also strengthen your cough syrup and add more codeine. Sometime tomorrow, I'll try to get one of the portable machines over for a chest x-ray."

Almost falling asleep again, Hank nodded his head. He croaked, "Thanks . . . Jill."

She smiled tenderly. "You're welcome, Hank." Her eyes flashed to Boris, and he watched her smile drop. "Keep him warm and in bed, and it's probably time to get him out of the tub now. He needs to rest."

Boris pointedly looked at the door, and she seemed to get the message. With a quick smile at Hank, Casey walked out the door after telling Boris that she would have the prescription sent to him later that night. He heard her letting herself out of the guesthouse, and he finally breathed in relief.

Thank heavens, that woman was gone. If she had stared inappropriately at Hank one more time, he would have been tempted to introduce her to his shark.

It only took a few minutes to carefully lift Hank out of the tub and onto the toilet, where he dried the doctor's wet skin. He also took the time to completely towel Hank's hair dry. After his love was dry, he helped him back into his pajamas—Boris' own pajamas were wet but ignored—before carrying Hank to bed. Hank was only slightly conscious when Boris eased him into the bed and piled the blankets around him.

Dripping all over the carpet and bed was not his idea of a good way to keep Hank warm, so Boris changed into the young doctor's terry robe. It was small, but it was better than soaked pajamas.

At last, when the clock was striking 4:41 a.m., Boris climbed into bed beside Hank, wrapped his arms around his shoulders, and fell asleep with his love securely snuggled in his arms.

Just as he was about to fall into a deep sleep, Boris decided that he needed a Plan D. Merely keeping Hank close in the guesthouse was obviously not enough; Hank needed to be firmly ensconced in the manor proper, preferably in the room right beside Boris'. His doctor could run HankMED out of the guesthouse—and he supposed Evan could remain there—but Boris planned on having his love's bedroom right beside his, just in case another emergency like this one occurred. Actually, Boris supposed there was no _just in case another emergency _arose, not with Hank. With Hank beside him, he could keep a closer eye on his love, who seemed to have a nasty knack for finding trouble.

Boris smiled happily as the thought settled in his mind. He almost looked forward to the war that would inevitably explode when he suggested it to Hank.

[1] I want to say a strong _thank you_ to Peace Phoenix, who clarified some of my questions on German. Thank you, thank you, thank you! (Here is a virtual chocolate chip cookie for you!) I'm intrigued with some of the comments you made on _Lieber/Liebe_. Even more, I was surprised that the _von_ between the first name and surname is a baron. Intriguing!

[2] I was interested in finding where this came; apparently, it can be attributed to Admiral Grace Hopper and is known as Hopper's Axiom. I just found it intriguing that this saying came from an admiral!

_Next Chapter: Plan D. _War erupts . . . and Eddie strikes. Again. Bad things happen. A frustrated and scheming Boris steals his first kiss . . . well, at least his first kiss when Hank is moderately conscious.

_Thanks to all of my wonderful reviewers! _The reviews have been wonderfully encouraging. :-)


	6. Plan D: Start a War

_Summary: _Intrigued by his new concierge doctor, Boris schemes on how to more fully integrate Hank into both the Hamptons and Boris' own life. One plan after the next leads to mixed failure and success. Poor Boris!

_A/N: _Thus begins the Plan D arc . . . where all sorts of madness and mayhem ensues!

My express apologies for taking so absurdly long to update. Real life has been knocking on my door lately—at the same time as writer's block. Oh, joy!

**Chapter Six**

**Plan D:**

**Start a War**

Splayed on his stomach in the dead of night, grass crumpled beneath his once-impeccable navy blue Armani suit, golden cufflinks flashing slightly in the light of a full moon, Boris could not believe this was happening to him. He knew Eddie and Evan were bad news when he first met them. Every instinct he possessed had shrilled at him in no uncertain terms that these men would cause Trouble. Thoughts of having both men permanently removed from the picture had momentarily made him smile—well, perhaps _momentarily _was not being completely honest—but he knew he could not do this. Hank would not be happy, and when Hank was displeased, so was Boris. Boris had discovered from Eddie and Evan's actions with HankMED's financial crisis that a very, _very_ unhappy Hank left Boris more than merely displeased; it left him uncomfortably close to murder.

That feeling was increasing, for the two idiots were the very reason he was stretched out across cold dirt in the middle of the night, _spying_ on someone.

And to think . . . only hours earlier he had been heatedly arguing with his love, staring at Hank's face as the man all but growled at him for _such a ridiculously simple thing_. He had instigated Plan D: Hank's removal from harmful influences into a safer, more controllable environment. All Boris had done was move Hank from the guesthouse to his manor. Really, the younger man had completely over-reacted. It wasn't like Boris had done anything terribly hideous. He had not assaulted Evan, though the good Lord knew the man deserved it. He had not placed Doctor Jill Casey's name on the list of those miscreants who were a public menace and could not, therefore, be allowed onto his property. He had not even had Hank's father bound, gagged, and thrown into the closest body of water or introduced to his shark tank. Indeed, he hadn't even harmed a cat or a dog. Given the circumstances, Boris felt he had acted with admirable restraint. Sheer over-reaction . . . that was all it was, a remnant of the good doctor's illness.

Sighing tiredly and sourly wishing he were elsewhere, especially if that meant continuing his invigorating argument with Hank, Boris lifted the night binoculars to his eyes. Yes, he could spot three guards pacing the confines of the little shack they were using for their nefarious purposes. They looked to be carrying multiple handguns and assault rifles, but the building they guarded was poorly constructed. This would, thus, undoubtedly serve as the strategic point of entry for them. The walls were crumbling, with broken windows and rickety doors completing the picture. Even the front door hung loosely from its hinges. From what Boris could see, it would be easy to kick down.

Boris heard a soft sound to his side, and he smiled slightly, clamping his hand on Hank's shoulder. Hank was sprawled out beside him, dressed in a rumpled blue shirt and tan pants. Neither of them had had the chance to change before this evening's clandestine operation. Hank in particular stood out against the dark landscape, and Boris would be very grateful when this rescue mission was complete. He didn't like placing Hank's life in danger, especially for his buffoon of a brother—or maybe it was his baboon of a brother. Boris was never certain which idioms were correct in the English language, but baboon seemed quite appropriate when describing one Evan R. Lawson, CFO of HankMED and general pain in Boris' billionaire buttocks.

Quickly, he handed Hank the binoculars. He then gestured for his Glock 9mm, which Hank awkwardly returned to him, anxiety obvious on his still-pale face. When Hank had seen Boris pull the handgun out of his glovebox, his hazel eyes had widened almost comically, not to mention that his mouth had hung open slackly. Boris was surprised that his good doctor was, well, _surprised. _He had hired former-Mossad bodyguards, after all, and he had a shark at home. Why should a semiautomatic pistol in the glovebox surprise him?

As he once more checked that the 9mm was loaded, Boris sourly reflected that, yes, today could have gone better. He had exchanged one war for another, and in his opinion, the exchange had not been profitable or even remotely tolerable.

The day had started reasonably well, if one considered that Boris knew he was well overdue for a heated argument with his young houseguest (and, even more, that the German baron relished those battles). Boris should have known that things would deteriorate from the very beginning. With Hank, a day starting well was a sure sign that disaster of momentous impact would soon strike.

As the clock struck 8 am, Boris had cautiously wandered into the guestroom next to his own bedroom. For many years, this guestroom had been empty. He sometimes had people stay, but they were usually gone within days, leaving the room once more empty. Moreover, he rarely let anyone he did not explicitly trust stay in that room, so close was it to his own. Thus, very few people stayed there, as Boris trusted almost no one.

Today, though, he was being exceedingly cautious as he entered the room, for he expected to be ambushed by one very frustrated, very angry Hank Lawson. And _frustrated _and _angry_ were probably far too mild to do justice to the young man's feelings. Upon greater consideration, _furious_ and _wanting-to-hurl-pointy-objects _were probably more accurate.

Grimly, he looked around the room, prepared for attack. However, at first glance, nothing was obviously ominous. Sitting gloomily in the chair beside the bedroom's huge king-size bed was Hank Lawson, fully dressed despite Boris' thoughts that the good doctor should still be resting in bed. His face remained troublingly pale, and he had lost weight. Hank continued to cough periodically.

Up until this point, Hank had been too ill to realize that Boris had moved him from the guesthouse to the manor proper. That had been four days ago, the morning after Boris had sat behind a completely naked Hank in the bathtub, trying to suppress his own body's rather amorous urges. He was still grateful that both Evan and Divya had taken such extended leaves, for it had worked into his plan perfectly.

However, Boris had known his actions would be an issue when the previous evening, Hank had blinked rapidly, looking at the bedroom with perplexity. His perplexity had grown when he had seen all of his belongings surrounding him, with the exception of HankMED's belongings. The only medical item remaining was his doctor's bag, for Boris knew better than to part his feisty doctor from his medical bag.

He was already in enough trouble as it was.

Stiffly, Hank stood from the chair. He glowered at Boris. "Would you like to explain this, Boris?" he demanded. The good doctor began pacing, coughing every so often. When Boris moved to offer him assistance, Hank scowled. Boris honestly didn't know if he had ever seen Hank scowl before.

"Explain what, doctor?" he asked, tilting one eyebrow up in calm inquiry. Warily, he stepped further into the room, strategically standing between Hank and the door.

Something between a scowl and a glower passed over Hank's face. The shorter man crossed his arms, tilted his face up, and frowned. "_Explain what?_" he echoed sharply. He ran a hand through his curly hair before determinedly meeting Boris' gaze. "For starters, could you please explain why I am _here_, in your manor? I don't recall asking to move."

Briefly, the German turned from Hank. He smiled, though he made sure to hide the expression from his love. It would not do to incite the man even more than he already was. "It seemed a logical move, as you were ill and I had business to conduct. You needed someone to watch over you, and this was a convenient solution."

It was rational, logical: and he knew that Hank was going to be near to frothing at the mouth over it.

"You moved me—_you took everything from the guesthouse_—I can't believe this!" Hank sputtered, hazel eyes blazing. "Why on earth would you do this, Boris?"

"I would not wish you to be without your comforts of home, Hank," Boris calmly asserted. He smiled.

It was his war smile: the hunter about to strike, the shark ready to bite. Oh, yes, he had been looking forward to Hank's wrath for several days now. It rejuvenated him, gave him a challenge that no one else seemed capable of offering.

Again, Hank paced: back and forth, back and forth. He periodically cast annoyed scowls Boris' way, sometimes mumbling things that Boris could not hear no matter how well he listened—though he thought he heard Hank questioning his mother's intelligence. Boris merely waited patiently for whatever accusations Hank was sure to fling at him.

Finally, Hank stopped in front of him. His hands were on his hips, his lips were compressed into thin white lines, and his eyes stabbed at Boris. The German nobleman had to work hard not to smile at that fiery look. This was the strong young man he had come to love—even if a bit enraged and ill. This was the same young man who had confronted him over saving someone's life and, in that moment, stolen his heart.

"Let me see if I have this straight, Boris," Hank snapped, glaring at him. "I was sick, completely out of commission. Divya and Evan were gone. You took advantage of that by _unilaterally_ deciding that I needed to be in your manor, under your guard, whether I liked it or not. And to make matters worse, you had all of my things carted here without asking me if I wanted to stay?" By the time he was done, Hank was practically growling.

Boris silently placed his arms behind his back, serenely looking at the infuriated doctor. Again, he smiled. "You are making this seem much more sinister than it really is, doctor. I was simply taking care of you when you needed it."

Hank inhaled sharply, shaking his head. For a moment, he coughed before finding his voice again. His words were slightly hoarse when he replied, "Taking care of me is one thing. And I am grateful for that, Boris, really." He looked up at the reclusive baron with a small smile. Unfortunately, the smile did not last long. "However, dragging me up here with all my worldly goods without asking is another matter entirely."

"I was more than glad to help, doctor, I assure you," Boris simply said, not even bothering to respond to Hank's annoyed comment about being moved.

Hank shot an annoyed look Boris' way. "And that's not even the worst of it, Boris," the good doctor grumbled. He frowned. "Dieter _will not leave me alone._ Day and night, the man is here, _lurking_. He asks me if I want lunch, if I want dinner, if I want a bath, if I need help getting out of bed, if I need help getting _into _bed, if I want to take a stroll. He even asks if I've taken my medicine! I swear the man is stalking me."

Inwardly, Boris snickered at this—actually, he snickered outwardly, too, just more eloquently.

His voice was utterly calm when he replied, "I asked him to keep an eye on you, doctor, as you seemed particularly incapable of watching over yourself earlier. He is just unusually diligent. Our aim was solely to help you get better."

Again, Hank glared at Boris. "I didn't—_don't_ need help. I was just fine."

This time, Boris snorted—noticing Hank's astonished eyes at the sound. "You did need help," Boris insisted, beginning to walk around Hank, circling him. Nervously, Hank watched him, literally turning his body to follow the nobleman. "You were very ill, Hank. You could not even stand straight. We did what was needed."

Disgruntled, not to mention discomfited by Boris' circling motion, Hank at last rolled his eyes. "Fine, Boris! Maybe I did need help. But what on earth possessed you to move all of my things here? I plan on being in the guesthouse again this evening."

Well, at least Hank was admitting that he had needed help. That was a significant step in Boris' devious plan for gaining Hank's affections. However, if Hank thought he was going to be back in the guesthouse anytime soon, _ever _actually . . . the German shook his head. Hank would soon learn otherwise.

Despite his love of the chase, Boris bitterly reflected that all of this would have been much easier in the middle ages. He could have simply knocked Hank out, dragged him to his castle, and had his way with him, no one questioning him. How much easier his ancestors had it.

"No, doctor," he began unhurriedly, smiling in an expression that had terrified Supreme Court justices but seemed to bounce right off Hank's radar, "you will not be leaving for the guesthouse. Evan will remain there, as will your practice's headquarters, but you will now lodge here. It will be much safer for you, as it will allow me to make sure that you are well at all times."

Ah, his love was pacing again. Hank reminded Boris of a panther locked behind bars. He turned furious eyes on the German.

"Boris," Hank began carefully, even reasonably, "you have I don't know how many Mossad bodyguards here. You have secure gates. Just why do I need to be here when the guesthouse is perfectly safe?"

"A good question, Hank," Boris began, standing still while his love continued to prowl the room, "but easily answered. The guesthouse is on the perimeter of the estate and less secure. This bedroom is in the central portion of the manor itself; it is far more secure. And you—" his left eyebrow shot up, and he smiled toothily "—you need to be protected."

Boris knew that the minute these words passed his lips, Explosion Hank would threaten to obliterate all life as he knew it.

He wasn't disappointed.

"What—?" Hank started incredulously, eyes flashing. "That's absurd. Completely!"

Hank was now seething, so Boris felt it was a perfect time to annoy his love even more. He planned to win this war with Hank, and the young doctor would not know exactly how he had lost.

"You attract more trouble than any other man I know of . . . perhaps excepting your brother," Boris began smugly, loving the simmering green eyes as they sparked at him. "Between your insane father and your equally insane brother, it is amazing that you have managed to survive to this age, Hank. I would protect you from anyone who would harm you, including your family and even yourself."

Hank glared at him. "I don't need to be protected!" he rashly declared, standing right in front of Boris and glowering at him. At least he was not stomping his feet and pouting like a little child. "I'm a grown adult, and you do _not_ own me. I'm merely a visitor here."

Ah, at last: it was time for a final volley. Despite his noble ancestry, Boris was not above playing dirty to get what he wanted. Gently, Boris smiled, reaching towards Hank's cheek and caressing it tenderly. Hank stared at him, eyes very wide. Moments later, his young doctor nervously licked his lips, eyes blinking quickly.

"B-Boris . . .?"

Boris continued to smile, and he moved his hand to Hank's temples, which he softly stroked. Hank swallowed heavily, eyes flitting uneasily around the bedroom.

"Boris, is there something you want to tell me, maybe?" Hank at last asked hesitantly, looking at Boris with an unsettled gaze.

"Hank," Boris began, pitching his voice lower, until his words were almost husky, "the first time I saw you, I knew I had found something special, something precious. It was exactly what I was looking for, though I didn't realize I was looking for anything." As his hand traveled back to Hank's cheek, he could feel the doctor's soft eyelashes beating against his hand. It made Boris clear his throat. "You have such energy, such compassion. You are . . . special, dear to me. I will let nothing harm you."

Hank inhaled sharply, right before suddenly launching into a coughing fit. He rapidly blinked his eyes. Never looking away, Boris moved closer to his love, gently rubbing his back. The coughs eased after a moment, and Boris quietly uttered, whispering sensuously right into the doctor's ear, "See, Hank? This is why you are here—so that I may help you when you need it." He rubbed at Hank's shoulders, the caress tender, seductive. "Surely, you must wish for this safety, too, after being without it for so much of your life?"

Shocked green eyes looked at Boris' face, then at Boris' hands as they continued to rub at Hank's shoulders. They numbly looked back up, seeming almost lost.

Abruptly, Hank's eyes narrowed. "Boris . . . are you attracted . . . no, never mind," the good doctor suddenly withdrew his question, shaking his head in uncertainty. He frowned, again flicking his eyes up to Boris' face.

There was one certain way of answering Hank's unasked question. Boris leaned down and softly caressed his lips against Hank's: a chaste kiss, but something he had thirsted for since meeting his fiery young doctor. When Hank gasped against him, startled, Boris deepened the kiss, mapping Hank's lips. He plunged his tongue inside that warm cavern, and their tongues dueled in a fierce battle for control. Hank moaned into his mouth, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks. After a minute, Boris moved his mouth to spray kisses along the doctor's slender neck, smiling when Hank gasped once more. The doctor swallowed hard, and Boris could feel Hank's pulse quickening.

Yes, this was hopeful for a first kiss—well, at least a first kiss while his love was remotely conscious.

After a long pause in which Boris' hands shifted up to Hank's lean throat, gently petting the skin, Hank at last broke away. He hastily stepped several feet back, then he cleared his throat—several times. "Well . . . Boris . . . I guess this will be fine. Yeah, it should work," the young man mumbled, looking at him with wide eyes. Nervous hands rubbed up and down his crossed arms, and he looked exactly like a deer about to run. Boris also noticed that Hank hadn't mentioned the kiss. Or the caresses. Not at all.

Inwardly, Boris grinned.

Oh, Hank could run, he could try to hide, but Boris had just won Round One. And the good doctor had not even realized that there had been a Round One. It looked like Plan D was succeeding: in the process of moving his love to a safer environment, he had started a war for Hank's heart. He planned to win this war with any tactic at his disposal, no matter how dirty, aggressive, or outright shady. Hank _would be his._

However, Boris knew that it was best to leave now, before Hank got rambunctious again. Anyhow, his love needed to rest. Fighting with Boris was likely not the best way to heal his already strained lungs.

Maybe even kissing was not the best way to heal aching lungs, though Boris would argue otherwise. It was good breathing exercise, yes?

"Very good, doctor," he spoke graciously, smiling. He glanced outside. "It is a lovely day. Maybe it would be a perfect chance to rest outside until you are back to your normal health?"

Tensely, Hank nodded, his eyes never moving from Boris' face. He seemed to be trying to decide if Boris had truly been caressing his skin and kissing him or if he had been outright hallucinating. His eyes constantly flitted to Boris' mouth. The sight made Boris smile triumphantly. "Oh . . . sure. Maybe in a bit after I check my iPhone."

Reality crashed into the sensual atmosphere. Boris had to bite his tongue, almost literally, to keep from snapping something out about stressing his health for financial and business purposes; however, he stopped himself and just gave the good doctor a tight smile. He had to move slowly, cautiously, or Hank would run. "Good. I'll see you for lunch, then?"

Hank grumbled something that sounded suspiciously like _as if I have a choice_, but he nervously stated, "Certainly. We can . . . uh, discuss your case, too, get that going."

It wasn't what he wanted, but Boris figured he needed to take what he could get.

Ten minutes later, after Boris had excused himself, the German nobleman stood beside his dresser. He was intently deciding which cufflinks would look best with his navy blue suit and burgundy shirt. After all, he was planning on spending time with his Hank, and he wanted to look his very best for his love.

Admittedly, he was also listening for something. Hank had said that he was checking his iPhone. Boris assumed that he would be checking more than just his email.

Suddenly, something clattered noisily in the room beside him.

Ah, he was right. The corners of Boris' mouth tilted up. Hank _had _checked more than his email. Boris heard Hank's outraged declaration right through the very sturdy and almost sound proof walls of his manor: "_Boris Kuester von Jurgens-Ratenicz!"_

Hearing this, Boris calmly reflected that the situation was always poor when his full name was being angrily roared across the hall at him. Someone had to be extensively aggravated with him to try to pronounce his full name, at least in America—and in this situation, it was his precious doctor.

He smirked.

Remarkably, Hank had even gotten the pronunciation right.

Voice enraged, Hank continued to shout, "_I am going to _kill _you, you—you grwalll mllliyksl!_" Boris couldn't quite tell what Hank had just called him, for it sounded like "grwall mlliyksl," but he knew it had not been pleasant. Maybe bastard manipulator? Fiend? Murderer? Manipulator? Of course, if Hank had called him a bastard manipulator, Boris would be hurt. He was born from the completely legitimate marriage of noble German bloodlines. As for the rest of the possibilities . . . Boris smiled. At least a few of them were quite appropriate.

He shook his head, still beaming quite contentedly.

The good doctor had obviously just discovered the quarter of a million dollars mysteriously deposited into HankMED's bank account.

Smirking, Boris merely continued to get ready for his day. This was to be a fairly busy day, especially after he had cancelled several appointments to care for Hank. His smirk widened as he affixed two of his favorite gold cufflinks to his Armani suit. He could now hear Hank beating at his door, which he had conveniently (and wisely) locked on his way into the room.

While he combed his hair one more time, Boris considered that today had already been a fairly good day. He had riled up his love to almost sputtering proportions, he had managed to escape said love's company before Hank had discovered his donation to HankMED's funds, and he had done this all well before noon.

With an eager smile, Boris even thought, quite unlike himself, _Nothing could go wrong today._

Many turbulent hours had passed since his feeling of triumph. Shaking his head, Boris glowered at the dirt below his chin. _Nothing could go wrong, _indeed. He tiredly rubbed at his eyes, wondering how he had ended up in New Jersey half past midnight on a day that had started so refreshingly. Beside him, two of his bodyguards lurked, dressed completely in black and about as talkative as the dirt below them. Hank was shivering with a chill not necessarily caused by environmental factors. The good doctor needed to be resting, not waiting outside of a shack in the dead of night, hoping against hope that they had the right building. Boris was also tired. He was not as young as he once was, and the past few days had been draining, given Hank's illness.

Yes, this day had certainly started out well, but things had gone terribly, irrefutably wrong, thanks to Evan and Eddie. And, now, Boris was determined to make sure that the next day made things right.

He would have to make sure that Plan D included the elimination of certain familial threats. It was really the only way of protecting Hank.

_Next Chapter: Plan D Continued. _Just why are they out in the middle of nowhere with a pair of binoculars and a 9mm? You'll just have to see in the next chapter, wherein Boris learns that he should _never, ever _say _nothing could go wrong,_ Hank and Boris nearly come to blows . . . and, oh, Hank asks Boris for a million dollars.

_Thanks, reviewers! _I've been amazed with the wonderful and enthusiastic reviews I've received. To keep the bottom of the page more concise, I've tried replying directly to as many reviews as I can.


	7. Plan D: Never Say Nothing Could Go Wrong

_Summary: _Intrigued by his new concierge doctor, Boris schemes on how to more fully integrate Hank into both the Hamptons and Boris' own life. One plan after the next leads to mixed failure and success. Poor Boris!

_A/N:_ Chapter Seven continues the Plan D arc. And Boris really should have known better than to think that nothing could go wrong . . . Sorry about the long delay in getting to this. With any luck, this will start unravelling the mystery behind Chapter 6.

Of course, everything here is now completely AU since the last season ended with Boris evicting Hank! :-(

Hope everyone is enjoying a wonderful summer!

**Chapter Seven**

**Plan D:**

**Never Say Nothing Could Go Wrong Today**

The next time he thought _nothing could go wrong today_, Boris would immediately check himself into a mental institution and insist they give him their very finest padded cell, complete with straightjacket and copious pills. By even _thinking _that nothing could go wrong, he had most assuredly cursed the rest of their day. Yet nothing had seemed sinister about this day, nothing at all.

After his fight with Hank, Boris thought that the day could only get better. It was a sunny day, no rain was in sight, Hank was firmly ensconced in his new bedroom, and Evan was nowhere to be seen. Really, what more could one ask? Even better, after patiently waiting for several minutes, Boris managed to escape Hank's anger when the good doctor had a coughing fit and returned to his room to rest. Boris slid out of his room and skulked to his office, just glancing in to Hank's room to assure himself that his love was well. It was truly not Boris' habit to slink anywhere, least of all within his own mansion, but he really didn't want to get into yet another battle with Hank. It was strictly for Hank's own health, of course.

The man could hardly get better if he was shouting, now could he?

Boris' morning streamed past him with financial dealings across the globe and the crafty takeover of a business in Shanghai. Five minutes to noon, Boris was beginning to think that this day could not get better, especially when he fired three insubordinate whelps and traded some robust stocks that, through unmentionable and extremely accurate sources, he had heard would be soon plunging due to an as-of-yet undisclosed merger. Maybe Hank's presence was operating as some sort of good luck charm. He might be officially retired, but _retired_ certainly did not mean he could not make money.

Though he was completely unsuperstitious, as any enlightened man was in this age, Boris thought it would be the perfect time to have lunch with Hank, the apparent source of his good fortune.

The lunch had not gone as well as he had hoped, what with Hank glowering at him the entire time, but he had at least had the chance to spend time with the young man.

After a short and hostilely silent lunch, Boris tempted Hank to "escape" the confines of the manor. They took a long drive, enjoying the sunshine and the beauty that was the Hamptons. Sadly, Hank was less communicative than usual, choosing to silently churn over Boris' actions in what Boris would declare a genuine sulk. Then again, the trip had not been without its merits. Boris managed to get Hank to agree to a leisurely stroll through a local park. The German loved the time he was getting to spend with his doctor, especially since Hank was well enough to walk. He was coughing still, but the fresh air seemed to be adding a bit of color to his cheeks and a little sparkle to his muted eyes.

However, no day could be this perfect, and any day one said _nothing could go wrong_ would inevitably go horribly, impossibly wrong. Boris knew this, and he was almost unsurprised to find something sitting rather noticeably on the windshield of his black Porsche Panamera. Hank was still fairly silent with anger, but he did clear his throat and point at the odd sheet of paper neatly tucked under Boris' windshield wipers.

"Boris?" the doctor asked, walking towards the car and the piece of paper. "This wasn't here earlier, was it?"

Boris raised one eyebrow at his companion. He was sorely tempted to answer something along the lines of, _Of course it wasn't, Hank . . . I am not in the habit of driving around with annoying pieces of paper clinging to my window_, but he refrained from doing so. Hank was still recovering from his illness, and he probably didn't need Boris' sarcasm. The doctor's wits weren't yet at full capacity, given his headaches and slight fevers. Instead, Boris simply stated, "No, it wasn't there, doctor. Let me pick it up."

For most people, finding a note tackily attached to their car's windshield wipers would be nothing but annoying. Usually, such a note would entail some absurd advertisement for weight loss programs, beauty products, or breast/penis enlargements. However, Boris was not most people, and a piece of paper attached to his windshield wipers could mean any number of horrid possibilities.

As he neared the car, Boris was anything but shocked to find that the innocuous-looking white paper contained a ransom note. Indeed, the only thing that inordinately shocked him was that as far as he knew, no one he cared about was missing. He frowned.

Carefully, Boris pulled the ransom note from his car and looked at it. His eyebrows steadily climbed up his forehead, and his lips twitched.

Really, how could any self-respecting kidnapper write such a clichéd note? It was simply insulting. He stared at it in dismay.

**If you ever want to see Evan Lawsen again, pay 1 milion in untraysable bills. You have 24 hors. We wil contact you to arang the drop. No cops. No masod. Or Evan is ded: permanately.**

The kidnappers in question had obviously used the conventional ransom note format: white copy paper with letters cut from magazines, all pasted together with what looked like children's glue. A kindergartner could have put this together, maybe with better success. Unfortunately, the kidnappers apparently had less than a kindergartner's education, for they could not even spell. And what in all of heaven had they meant with that last sentence? _Death is always permanent, fools, _the recluse thought with annoyance.

For a moment, Boris wondered if this was Evan's idea of a rather poor prank. It seemed like something the baboon would do, and he liked to pull some of the most foolish stunts on his brother.

Unfortunately, one look at Hank's completely panicked face, turned so ashen that he looked about to drop unconscious, assured him that even Evan wouldn't do something this pathetic. Evan loved his older brother, one of his only redeeming qualities in Boris' mind. He wouldn't play a prank like this on Hank. Besides, Evan wasn't even in town. He was supposed to be in Cape Cod.

Boris cleared his throat, trying to get Hank's attention. Finally, the young man looked at him, eyes wide and terrified. If the threat had been to Hank, Boris thought that the doctor would have been collected enough to logically think through their problem; unfortunately, it was his little brother who was in jeopardy, and that was a different issue entirely.

"Calm yourself, doctor," Boris started, reaching for Hank's hand as it continuously ran through his curly hair. "This is not the time for panic. We must think this through logically."

After a moment, Hank nodded. "Yeah . . . yeah, you're right. Logically." His eyes roamed around them, as if expecting to see kidnappers perched in the trees. Well, Boris supposed they could be watching them, but he didn't see anything suggesting they were. "Think logically . . . Boris, why would someone take Evan? It's not like he's wealthy."

Boris was wondering the same thing. If someone were kidnapped from the Hamptons, it would normally be someone with wealth—like Boris. Maybe kidnapping Evan had something to do with Boris since he was wealthy?

Regrettably, Boris eventually decided that didn't make much sense. Anyone who knew him enough to know that Evan was staying at his manor would know that Evan was not his primary interest. Boris could barely tolerate being in the same room as the man. If anyone, kidnappers would have targeted Hank—though, thankfully, they hadn't done so. They should be thankful they hadn't, for Boris would have utterly crushed them for their very temerity. Boris was quite certain that their bodies would never have been discovered. However, this left him with completely no idea of why Evan had been selected. Just a glance at Hank's old Saab would clearly tell anyone that Hank wasn't a millionaire, so it made absolutely no sense to take Evan and ask for a million dollars.

Ban against contacting his "masod" agents or not, Boris abruptly realized that they needed to ask for his security force's help. They'd never be able to get Evan back if they didn't bring in the former Mossad agents. While the thought of leaving Evan to his own devices was tempting (very tempting), he knew Hank needed his brother in his life. Letting Evan die a slow, painful death was, thus, out of the question.

Boris looked carefully at Hank, who was pacing back and forth. Slowly, stealthily—knowing just how livid Hank would be at his actions—he pulled out his cell phone and dialed home.

He rushed the phone to his mouth. "Dieter. I have something—" Boris was hurriedly speaking before Hank angrily batted the phone right out of his hand to the ground. It didn't break, but Boris shot a glare at his young love. They could both hear Dieter's voice calling from the phone.

Hank waved his arms frenziedly. "Damn it, no Mossad!" Hank shouted, his slim figure in Boris' personal space, almost close enough to feel against his own body. He could feel the doctor's warmth, and for a moment Boris had trouble concentrating on Evan's kidnapping. "They said they'd kill him! Hang up before you get him killed, Boris!"

"We have no choice, doctor," Boris began, interjecting his voice over Hank's own strained words, "for these men will likely kill him even if we give them the money. Statistically, more than—"

"_No! Don't you _dare _spout statistics at me!" _Hank, standing several inches shorter than Boris and much slighter in build, shoved the German back several feet. Hank coughed roughly for a moment, his green eyes tearing, but he pointed one sharp finger against Boris' chest. "I swear, if you contact them, Boris, I will thump you over the head and throw your body over a cliff! There will be little left of you, so little even your—your Mossad minions won't find you!"

Boris was almost proud of his love, for the younger man was so rarely violent. Suppressing a smile, he wondered what his security would think of being called minions.

"Doctor, I understand, truly I do," Boris assured him, holding Hank still. Hank struggled against him, but Boris kept him in his grasp. "However—Dieter, can you hear us?"

"Yes, sir," came Dieter's tinny voice from the cell phone, curiosity obvious.

Hank squirmed in his arms. "Stop! Now! You could be getting Evan kil—"

Boris ignored him. "Get Johnson and Lever on this right away. Our distinguished doctor's brother has been kidnapped, with a 24-hour timeline." He placed a silencing hand over Hank's mouth when the older brother started shouting and cursing. Muffled sounds emerged from Hank's lips, followed by muffled coughs. Boris eased his grip over the doctor's mouth, not enough for Hank to speak but enough for him to breathe more easily. Calmly, Boris continued, "We just found the ransom note, so they have obviously been trailing us. Have Johnson and Lever start investigating who might be behind this. We'll be back at the manor in thirty minutes."

"Very good, sir, I'll have Johnson and Lever start immediately—oh, here is Johnson now. Anything to add?"

"Sir, do you see anyone watching you?" Johnson asked.

Again, Boris looked around them, but he didn't spot anything. "I don't believe so, but they could be hiding. Or they could be using electronic surveillance."

"I'd suggest getting out of there now, sir. You never know where the enemy could be," Johnson told him.

Boris nodded. "I agree. Johnson, see if you can find anything in the meantime. I cannot easily imagine why someone would choose Evan."

"Agreed," Johnson stated with a snort before hanging up the phone.

At last, Boris released his love, and he watched with some amusement as the good doctor practically ran five steps away from him, brushing his mouth with annoyance. Hank's lips were wet and very enticing, but Boris reminded himself that they were in a crisis. At any rate, kissing Hank right now would likely get him skinned alive—or, more likely, punched in the mouth.

If he were a dog, Hank's hackles would have been pointing straight up. However, as it was, the younger man settled for glaring at Boris and yanking open his side of the Porsche's door. Boris very quietly joined him, not bothering to comment on the glare that Hank was bestowing upon him.

"Did you really have to do that, Boris?" Hank finally exploded. He slammed his fist into the Porsche's dashboard, wincing but doing it again. "They were probably watching us! You may have just signed my brother's death warrant! God, I could _kill _you right now!"

Boris continued to let Hank beat the hell out of his dashboard without intervention. He simply drove away from the park at slightly-more-than-sane speeds.

"You did read that part about killing him if you contacted Mossad, right?" Hank grated, now slamming his fist into his own leg. Boris sighed as the doctor flinched. "You know, no cops, no Mossad."

"I did not contact _masod_. I contacted Mossad, ex-Mossad at that. Thus, technically, I did not violate their terms."

Hank stared at him, jaw hanging loosely. He blinked. "What the hell? You're risking my brother's life on a _technicality?"_ he at last managed to snap, voice strained. "I thought you were some sort of investment banker or something, not . . . not a goddamned lawyer!"

Boris remained silent, letting his doctor rant. It would do the younger man good.

"Do you _really _think that is going to work with them?" Hank continued, staring at him. He coughed several times, frown darkening when Boris attempted to help. The baron pulled back innocently.

"It is better to get professionals involved in a kidnapping situation, doctor," he promised Hank, giving the younger man a stern look. "And it tells us something. Evan's kidnappers obviously know about me. They would expect it."

Hank growled, eyes flint. "These are hardened criminals, Boris! You can't expect them to behave the way you want—"

"I do not think they are as intelligent as you believe, Hank." He glanced at his passenger. "If their letter is anything to go by, they are probably lucky to have the IQ of a chimpanzee. I even doubt their capacity as 'hardened criminals.' They were most likely hired by someone who did not know anyone capable of successful kidnapping."

Hank just glowered at him. After a moment, Hank managed to mutter, each word an indictment, "You seem to be doing a good deal of guesswork here, Boris."

Boris shrugged. "I have nothing else to go from." He paused, eyes glancing once more at his love. "Besides, Hank, we do not even know for sure that Evan has been taken. The kidnappers offered no proof."

Hank blinked. He considered Boris' words. "Yeah . . . yeah, you're right. We don't have any proof. Maybe this is all some sort of . . . misunderstanding."

Even Boris could tell that Hank didn't entirely believe this, but the young man was trying to.

Of course, Boris was fairly certain that Evan had been kidnapped, for no one in his right mind would place a ransom note on Boris' car without having the goods. He had carefully cultivated his reputation as a ruthless man for good reason. However, he was glad to offer hope to his furious and worried doctor, even if it was likely to be misguided. "I have dealt with these types of situations before, Hank, more times than I can describe to you. Let me help on this, and we will safely have your brother back in no time."

They were silent for several minutes. Boris had just pulled into the manor's extensive driveway when Hank turned to him. The younger man cleared his throat, hands clenched at his sides.

Nothing could have prepared him for Hank's next words.

"Could I borrow a million dollars, Boris? Like, right now?"

Boris stomped on the brakes.

Had he heard that correctly?

Pleading hazel eyes met his own. Hank's hands were rubbing up and down his legs, and Boris could see that they shook slightly. "I'll pay you back. It may take awhile—maybe a good long while—but I'll do it. You know I'm good for it."

At this, Boris rolled his eyes. Seconds later he was _still _rolling his eyes when considering Hank's cliché reaction to the equally cliché ransom note. One did not bargain with kidnappers. They rarely left the kidnap victim alive, even if they were paid. And, really, did Hank truly think that Boris would let him pay the money back? Hank needed to re-grow his business, and repaying a million dollar loan would certainly not help. Besides, Boris loved the doctor. A million dollars was nothing to him.

He just did not think giving Hank the money now would be useful under these circumstances.

Holding his breath, he looked over to Hank, and he gently rubbed the man's tense shoulders. After a moment, Hank sighed, frustration apparent; Boris did note, however, that the doctor's shoulders eased slightly. "We will see what Johnson and Lever have, Hank. If necessary, I will be more than happy to give you the money." Slyly, he replaced _loan _with _give, _hoping Hank wouldn't notice the switch. "Let's first try to get Evan back through . . . alternative methods."

Slowly, Hank nodded. Boris knew that asking for a million dollars to save his brother had to be painful for someone as self-reliant as Hank, but Evan was his brother. From what he had seen, Hank would do anything for Evan.

For his own part, Boris would do anything for Hank.

_Next Chapter: Plan D Continued. _We learn exactly who is behind this dastardly crime. Eddie learns just what it means to have both Boris _and _Hank really, really pissed. (Really, would _you _want to be in the same room as a pissed off Boris?)

_Thanks, reviewers! _I've been amazed with the wonderful and enthusiastic reviews I've received, especially since this has been on hiatus for . . . errr . . . a bit. Sorry for the wait on this update. I have the next chapter almost ready to go, so the next update should be well before the next century. You have my full permission to throw things at me! :-)


	8. Plan D: Find the Enemy

_Summary: _Intrigued by his new concierge doctor, Boris schemes on how to more fully integrate Hank into both the Hamptons and Boris' own life. One plan after the next leads to mixed failure and success. Poor Boris!

_A/N:_ Chapter Eight continues the Plan D arc, and, given the _last_ season, this is definitely AU. The good doctor is not overly happy right now . . . especially as it becomes all too clear who the orchestrator of Evan's kidnapping is. Boris learns a valuable lesson: don't come anywhere near Hank when he's pissed because the good doctor has a mean right hook.

I'm working on the next chapter, so we'll hope to see it up in about a week, too. Boris isn't happy right now ... with me, at least! :-)

**Chapter Eight**

**Plan D:**

**Find the Enemy**

Two hours later, Boris didn't doubt that this kidnapping was somehow tied with Hank's father. He had always known that Hank's father was Trouble; this just proved it. From what he had ascertained so far, it seemed that Eddie Lawson had made some sort of mistake, gotten himself some serious enemies, and now his sons were paying for his mistakes: as always. His Mossad agents had uncovered some hints of shady enterprises with the mafia, perhaps explaining why Eddie had so suddenly "reappeared" after his twenty-year hiatus. It looked like Eddie had actually tried to embezzle money from several key mafia figures, and he had absurdly believed that he could get away with such activities. Boris really would have much preferred facing a group of assassins or terrorists, not betrayed and furious mafia bosses. The very cliché nature of this entire situation was irksome.

However, it was time to prove that Eddie was involved in many unsavory enterprises. He didn't think that Hank needed much proof, for his relationship with his father was at best strained, but he might need to truly see his father's perfidy to allow Boris to take control of matters. And according to Johnson, his lead Mossad agent, Eddie Lawson had been spotted in town at Ms. Newberg's mansion, entrenched right between her and her dog Koufax while enjoying the many luxuries a billionaire's life could afford.

How convenient.

Boris practically snarled. Mr. Lawson was just lucky that he hadn't endangered Hank's life—otherwise the visit he intended to have with the man would end most unfortunately. Indeed, if Hank was upset enough by the situation, it still might.

After this disaster, Boris was determined to see Lawson gone from Hank's life, father or not.

Frowning, Boris stared at the information in front of him. He glanced over at Hank, who had just entered the security room. Seeming unable to stand still, Hank was nervously walking back and forth. As the nobleman watched, Hank folded his arms and then lifted his right hand until he was biting his nails. Boris had never seen him do this before, so he knew the good doctor's stress level had to be high.

He was definitely not going to like what Boris had to tell him.

"Doctor," he began, walking straight into Hank's path and stopping him as his steps once more started to tread across the room, "I think we know who is behind this."

Hank simply stared at him, his eyes desperate. He bit his lip, coughing softly.

Boris waited for the coughing to ease. After a moment, Hank gave him a quick nod. "We think it is your father," Boris told him softly, not liking the frozen expression that suddenly spread across Hank's face. Hank's skin had blanched. "The evidence is fairly conclusive, unfortunately."

Hank stood there for a moment, numb. His eyes, always so passionate, were dark, almost dull. He finally managed to stammer, "My—my dad? Taking Evan?" He shook his head wildly. "No . . . that doesn't make sense, Boris. He's a right bastard, I won't argue that, but he wouldn't do that. Not even . . ."

Boris squeezed Hank's shoulder when the doctor seemed unable to continue. "No, I do not mean that _he _took Evan." Hank's hazel eyes flicked to Boris' face. Again, there was a quiet desperation to his gaze that Boris found concerning. All of this was coming too soon after Hank had been incredibly ill. Even now, his love had trouble breathing. He gently rubbed his hands up and down Hank's arms. "I mean, Hank, that your father seems to have been involved in some . . . activities that upset very powerful people."

Blinking, Hank shook his head. He ran a trembling hand through his hair. "But, no . . . who would go after dad?" He frowned, brow furrowed. "He's a con artist, Boris. A two-bit con artist. From what little I've seen, he doesn't have connections that would . . ." Explosively, Hank sighed, then coughed for a good minute. He looked away from Boris' penetrating gaze. "I guess that is the problem, isn't it?"

Boris merely waited for Hank to continue. His heart ached for the younger man, for he knew that behind Hank's anger towards his father had to be longing, too, a hurt and despair that had been left unaddressed for over twenty years.

"I don't really know him, do I?" Hank whispered before turning dark eyes towards Boris. A nervous hand swept through his curly hair. He cleared his throat, his face suddenly becoming cold. "Who is he involved with, Boris? What has the bastard been doing?"

Boris guided Hank towards the laptop he had been looking at only moments before, gesturing at its screen. Hank followed him, leaning in to look at pictures of his father with two men; the pictures were grainy, but there was no doubt that this was his father.

Questioningly, Hank glanced up at Boris. "Who are they?"

"New Jersey crime bosses . . . suspected crime bosses, at least." He paused, looking carefully at Hank's strained face. After a moment, he elaborated, "The one on the right, the larger one, is Michael Matini. He is rumored to be behind most of the New Jersey crime family. On the left is John Matini, his brother. Johnson thinks they are the ones behind this. They're likely not the ones holding Evan, but they probably ordered the kidnapping. Given the picture, I must agree."

Looking vaguely nauseated, Hank stared at the picture for several moments. He at last turned wide eyes on Boris. "When was this picture taken?"

Johnson, Boris' head of security, turned towards the doctor. "Probably about two months ago, give or take."

Boris noticed that Johnson did not state the obvious: almost immediately before his mysterious appearance in the Hamptons. This was no coincidence.

Hank's eyes almost froze at this news, right before narrowing grimly while looking at the picture. "Last I heard, Boris, dad was staying with Ms. Newberg." He paused before glancing at Boris. "I think we need to pay a visit."

Nodding, Boris couldn't agree more.

* * *

When they arrived at Ms. Newberg's mansion, they found both Ms. Newberg and Hank's father lounging beside the pool, laughing as they read a letter. Both their heads were joined together in conspiracy, and Boris could see Newberg's white and black dog curled up beside them. It was a highly domestic scene, one jarring when juxtaposed to what Boris now knew about Mr. Lawson. Apparently, Lawson was a much more skilled con artist than either he or Hank had given him credit.

"Oh, hello, Hank," Lawson had the audacity to welcome warmly, smiling as Hank and Boris neared the happy couple. His eyes lost their warmth when they fell on Boris. He simply nodded. "Boris."

"Mr. Lawson," Boris replied just as frigidly.

Ms. Newberg's blue eyes flicked from Hank and Boris' faces to Lawson's for several seconds. She finally cleared her throat. "Let me leave you gentlemen to talk. I had some . . . things to do. Yes, some . . . things."

Amazed, Boris watched her nearly run into the mansion, her tall shoes clicking on the flagstones. He had never seen Ms. Newberg retreat from confrontation like that; she always seemed to enjoy it. Perhaps, though, it was better that she was not here for this discussion.

"Well . . . Hank . . . what brings you out here?" Lawson asked after clearing his throat. Boris noted that the man was rubbing his hands against his thighs, as if they had suddenly become quite sweaty. The man practically shouted _guilty conscience_. "I didn't expect to see you after . . . would you like something to drink?" he abruptly asked.

Hank shook his head. He stared at his father, his face hard, uncompromising. Boris was certainly seeing a different side to his love. "No, but you can tell me what the hell you're doing here while Evan is being held hostage."

When Hank spoke, Lawson had been lifting a glass of iced tea to his mouth. The glass shattered across the flagstones, and Lawson stared at them in horror. His face had turned white, and Boris could see his fingers trembling. Dark eyes stared at them, wide and disbelieving—but Boris noticed they were not entirely shocked.

"Wh-what did you just—?"

Hank hurled the ransom note at his father.

"Yes, _dad_, it looks like your friends from Jersey decided to pay you back for whatever the hell you did to them. Does the name _Matini_ ring a bell?"

With that, Hank launched himself at Lawson, his arm tucked far behind his body as he prepared to punch the nonsense right out of his father. As his fist neared its target, Boris captured Hank in his arms, not letting him move. Hank writhed, eyes furious, staring at Lawson with hate. Boris merely continued holding him back.

Lawson struggled to his feet, gaze steadily clamped to his son's incensed face. He shook his head continuously, almost as if in denial. "No . . . no, they wouldn't . . ."

Boris stared at the man. Lawson was an idiot. What did the man think the mob would do if he reneged on a deal, which is exactly what Boris believed he had done?

Hank continued to thrash in Boris' arms. "What?" he yelled, fists waving in the air. "You thought they were going to just let you _walk away_ from whatever the hell you did to piss them off? This isn't fucking high school, dad. These bastards play for keeps!"

"No . . . they're . . . businessmen, Hank," Lawson tried desperately, his hands helplessly clasped into fists. "They wouldn't . . ."

"Do not be absurd, Lawson. These 'businessmen' are part of one of the largest crime families on the east coast," Boris interjected, still trying to hold Hank back from decking his father. It was not that Lawson did not deserve it; no, the problem was that they needed to ply whatever information they could from him, and they could not do so if the man were unconscious. Besides, he didn't want to see Hank beat himself up later, which his doctor most certainly would. Hank had a more highly developed conscience than Boris did. "Of course they would retaliate."

"And they've _retaliated_ by taking my brother!" Hank snapped. His eyes glowed dangerously as Boris pushed him into one of the vacant loungers. Boris kept his hands in place, effectively trapping the man. "And damn it, Boris, let me go!"

Boris shook his head. "I am afraid I cannot do so, doctor, not until you calm down enough to be trusted." With one hand firmly secured against the doctor's shoulder, Boris tried calming Hank by using his free hand to rub Hank's neck. It worked a little, but perhaps not as much as Boris had hoped. Given the circumstances, anything was an improvement. "You have been very ill. Surely, as a doctor, you must know that stress does not help the healing process."

Almost as if to prove his point, Hank immediately began to cough, his breaths coming out as strained, almost choking gasps. Boris could not have asked for better timing.

"See, doctor? You need to rest a moment and calm down. I will happily deal with your father." He shot ruthless eyes at Mr. Lawson, who nervously swallowed.

Lawson poured a glass of lemonade from a nearby pitcher, handing it to Hank nervously. However, Boris thought he detected contrition behind the anxiety, and that made him think that Lawson might be amenable to giving them the information they needed.

"I'm sorry, Hank, to get you boys all mixed up in this," Lawson slowly admitted, standing beside Hank and trying to rub one shoulder. He removed his hand quickly when Hank, who was still breathing heavily, outright bristled. "You two shouldn't have to deal with my . . . anyway, are you feeling better?"

With a sour frown, Hank nodded, refusing to look at Lawson. He simply sipped from his glass.

Eddie cleared his throat, rubbing his forehead. "So . . . do you have any idea on how to go about this?"

Lawson's eyes words were for them both, but his eyes were trained on Boris.

Obligingly, Boris nodded. He kept his pressure on Hank's shoulder. "My agents are looking into where they may have him. However, we were hoping you might have some information that could be helpful in finding Evan."

Quite frankly, it was the only thing keeping Boris from killing the man.

At last, Hank looked back up at his father, his eyes still narrowed at him though now they seemed a bit watery from the coughing. "How did you get mixed up in these guys, dad?" asked Hank, his voice rough. "You had to know they were more than 'businessmen.'" Boris thought he heard Hank murmur something like _Even you can't be that stupid_, but he was not positive. However, it directly reflected his own feelings on the matter.

Lawson had to be either supremely naïve or absurdly stupid to entangle himself with the mafia.

Biting his lower lip—a habit he seemed to share with Hank—Lawson ran a hand through his dark hair and sighed. Boris thought that they might not look much like one another, but some of their mannerisms were eerily similar. "It started out as a real estate con. I was supposedly buying foreclosed homes at cutthroat deals, signing the paperwork over to the buyers. They'd give me huge down payments when they signed the deal. However . . ." [1]

He shot nervous eyes at both of them, especially Hank.

"Umm . . . however, I was really only . . . do you really want to hear this, Hank?"

His hopeful eyes looked at his eldest son.

Both Boris and Hank nodded firmly. Lawson sighed.

"Well, the scam was that I didn't really _own _the homes. They were foreclosed properties still up for sale. I just, you know, made the marks think they had bought the home." Uneasily, he looked at Hank before quickly staring elsewhere. Hank's ashen face fairly shouted disgust, his eyes dark and his lips tightly clamped together. "I took a cut of the profit, and so did my . . . uh, my associate realtor. We gave the rest to the Matini family. To John."

Finally, Hank worked himself clear of Boris' grasp. He stood and turned his back on his father, looking sightlessly at the pool. After a moment, his head tilted downwards, though Boris was unsure what he was looking at, if anything.

Boris shifted until he could watch both Lawsons. He chillingly stared at the father until the man was once more wiping sweaty palms against his flesh. "I take it this arrangement was not entirely what it seemed, Lawson?"

Hank's head tilted up, and he moved his head slightly towards them. However, he did not turn around. He coughed slightly, waving away Boris' concern.

Again, Lawson looked at his son with anxiety. He then shook his head. "No . . . it wasn't all it seemed." He cleared his throat. "I was skimming the profits. John somehow figured this out, brought Michael Matini into the situation. I told them I'd look over my books, make sure I'd given them everything I was supposed to—"

Shocked, Boris blinked. "And they seriously fell for that?"

Lawson began biting at his fingernails. "No." He shook his head. "I knew it would only buy a few hours, but that was better than nothin'. I didn't even go back to my place. I just hightailed out of there."

Boris shook his head. After hearing this tall tale, his opinion of the American mafia was dramatically plunging. How could they have let Lawson out of their sight on such a flimsy concoction?

"Umm . . . well, Michael and John have . . . they have some pretty big hitters in different places. I thought that as long as I got out of—"

This time, it was Hank interrupting the idiot. Hank whirled around, his hands clenched into fists once more. "And you ran right here, didn't you?"

Tellingly, Lawson said nothing.

"_Didn't you, _dad?" Hank's voice sneered. As he said _dad_, his words practically oozed with hatred. "You ran right to the Hamptons, knowing full well that we were here, that we were staying with Boris, and that Boris is richer than the entire Matini family put together?"

Wincing, Boris watched his young love. He had never wanted Hank to realize this. Hank had already been hurt enough by his father's actions; he truly did not need to know that his father had visited him solely because he was staying on Boris' estate. Though he had known it was unlikely that Hank's bright mind would not see the connections, he had hoped, simply to ease Hank's pain.

Almost callously, Hank continued, his voice rising with each word: "And when you came to 'visit' us on the estate, you were really casing the place for a break-in, weren't you?"

Caught in the force of his own son's hatred, Lawson could not speak. Boris could tell that the man had no idea what to say—because Hank was exactly right.

"_Weren't you?"_ shouted Hank, suddenly only inches from his father. The doctor coughed harshly several times, but his eyes were flint as they honed in on Lawson.

Boris forced himself to stay back, knowing that Hank needed to do this.

"And now, what, _Ms. Newberg_ is easier pickings?" Hank asked, voice now so soft Boris could barely hear him. "You're planning to steal from her now that you can't steal from us?"

Despite himself, Boris almost smiled at Hank's use of _us_. Probably unconsciously, Hank had just lumped Boris in with his own interests.

Sweat was dripping down Lawson's face. He finally seemed to find his voice, but it was shaking. "N-no, son. I was . . . I'll admit that I was looking at Boris' place as a possible . . . business opportunity." Hank glared at him, eyes drilling into Lawson's. "But, I do love you. Both of you. I knew you were happy where you were, so I looked . . . elsewhere."

Boris sneered at this. The man was a leech. He wondered if Ms. Newberg would truly mind suddenly finding him . . . missing.

Lawson's anxious eyes flitted towards Boris before quickly moving away. Oh, yes, Boris noticed that Lawson was not telling Hank everything. Not a word of Boris' threats and 'arrangement' with Lawson was being mentioned. The German knew that Lawson had 'looked elsewhere' simply because Boris had scared the living hell out of him. It had had nothing to do with Hank and Evan's happiness.

Very well. Boris would have a similar discussion with Mr. Lawson about Ms. Newberg who, while sometimes annoying and confusing, Boris liked. He would make absolutely certain that Lawson left the Hamptons for good . . . just as soon as they had every bit of information they needed from Lawson's befuddled brain.

Boris felt it was time that he intervened. Hank was understandably getting off track, not to mention that his anger was straining already abused lungs; regrettably, they had a time limit. "Do you have any idea where they would take Evan, Mr. Lawson?"

Blinking, Lawson stared at him, mouth gaping rather stupidly. Hank merely waited beside him as his father considered the question.

After a moment's consideration, Boris stepped to Hank's side and encircled his tense shoulders with one arm, meeting Lawson's stunned eyes with a pointed look of his own. Hank's father hurriedly went back to looking anywhere but at them.

A few minutes later, Lawson finally said, his voice soft and somewhat hesitant, "I think I might know one place . . . but it's only a guess."

Boris supposed a guess was better than what they currently had, which was nothing. He inclined his head encouragingly.

"They've sometimes headed to a little place they have outside of West Milford." When Hank stared at him, nonplussed, he clarified, "It's in Jersey. About three hours from here." He paused before adding, "It's a small building, almost a shack kind of out in the middle of nowhere. Forest surrounds it."

"Hmm." Boris inhaled sharply, slowly beginning to nod his head. He rubbed Hank's shoulders until they loosened somewhat. "Yes, that sounds like a true possibility. For New Jersey, Milford has sparse population, and forest surrounds it. It would be an ideal place for our kidnappers."

"Wouldn't people notice something odd if it's such a small community?" asked Hank after clearing his throat. He was again biting at his lower lip, and Boris had to restrain himself from kissing that abused flesh. "You know . . . like someone being dragged inside against his will?"

Lawson made a dismissive gesture. "Nah . . . not really. They're not in Milford itself; just on the outskirts. Probably no one's around for miles."

For himself, Boris had heard enough; he was certain they would find Evan in Milford. He nodded at Hank. "This is most likely where they are holding him, Hank. We should return to the manor to plan an assault." To underscore his words, he started to draw Hank away from his father. "Time is of the essence."

"Yeah . . . yeah, you're right," Hank readily agreed. At this, Boris frowned in consternation. Something most definitely was not right when Hank was agreeing with him this easily, especially over a matter of such critical importance. He narrowed his eyes at his love.

Hank was up to something.

The sudden smile that appeared on Hank's face positively triggered every alarm bell that Boris had, but, unfortunately, he was too late. Even as the thought that he should really do something about whatever Hank was planning occurred to him, Hank was moving.

Lawson was begging to go with them, pleading desperately with his estranged son to listen to him: "Please, Hank, just let me come with you. This is all my fault. I need to help . . ."

"I think you've helped enough, _dad," _Hank growled. His words were accompanied by his fist, which struck Lawson in the jaw so hard that the man lurched back, his hands waving uselessly around him. Boris stared, watching the scene in something between concern and bemusement. After what seemed like minutes but could only have been seconds, Lawson at last toppled to the ground, motionless.

Amazed, Boris stared at the supine man before turning to look at his doctor, usually one of the more rational and non-violent people he knew. He was conscious that his lips were slightly ajar.

With a grim face, Hank leaned down to check his father's pulse. He then stood, shaking his hand.

"God, that hurt," the good doctor complained, now rubbing said appendage.

He was rapidly walking away before he tossed over his shoulder, "Come on, Boris. We need to get going."

Boris blinked. He stared at Lawson for a second, then shrugged. "I am right behind you, doctor," he spoke calmly, smiling slightly. Ah, yes, he was very proud of his love, for the man had shown enormous determination in dealing with the rather nasty business of his father's perfidy.

However, Boris would have to remember never to get between an angry Hank and his fist, for his doctor carried quite the right hook.

* * *

[1] This is a rework of a similar con played out on _In Plain Sight_ ("Love's Faber Lost").

_Next Chapter: Plan D Continued. _After having their little heart-to-heart with Eddie, Boris and Hank meet up with the kidnappers. Boris finally gets to use that Glock 9mm . . . and lots of bad things happen, to lots of bad people.

_Thanks, reviewers! _Thanks to everyone, for your encouraging words are wonderful to read—especially since this story was on hiatus so long! Especially, thanks to Peace Phoenix for her clarifications on German usage. Thanks so much! :-)


	9. Plan D: Lock the Stubborn Doctor Away

_Summary: _Intrigued by his new concierge doctor, Boris schemes on how to more fully integrate Hank into both the Hamptons and Boris' own life. One plan after the next leads to mixed failure and success. Poor Boris!

_A/N:_ Chapter Nine continues the Plan D arc.

**Chapter Nine**

**Plan D:**

**Lock the Stubborn Doctor Away**

Several hours after interrogating Lawson, Boris was still stretched out on the soil with a silently shivering Hank. It was cold and dark, and they were outside a shabby building—to call it a _house_ would have been far too kind—in the middle of nowhere, sprawled across the equally cold and hard soil, waiting for the kidnappers to make a mistake that they could use against them. To Boris, this entire situation sounded suspiciously like some strange and unlikely plot aired on one of the hackneyed American cop shows he refused to watch_._

Normally, Boris would simply direct his agents in the field while he remained safely ensconced at Shadow Pond, but the particular variables of this situation required his involvement. It was personal. These men had had the _audacity _to kidnap his doctor's younger brother. Even worse, these men had upset _his doctor_. For that—and admittedly to keep Hank from insanely trying to mount his own retrieval expedition, an act Boris knew would undoubtedly lead to Hank's injury or worse—Boris was here in the middle of a cold night, debating his next move.

The situation itself was far from desirable. He had had little time to prepare, for the ransom's deadline was swiftly approaching. They had been fortunate in that most of the materials and weapons they would need were already packed in one of the vehicles that Boris most commonly used for such exigencies. Less fortunate had been the fact that they had not even had the time to change into more appropriate attire. Boris certainly did not own any clothing suitable for deadly assaults on buildings guarded by kidnappers in the dead of night—he kept away from such enterprises as much as possible for obvious reasons—nor did he suspect that the good doctor did.

Even more, Boris' intuition told him that they needed to resolve this sooner rather than later. In fact, it had been fairly screaming at him that they needed to go immediately. Over the years, Boris had learned to trust his intuition, and that intuition unquestionably told him that Evan was unlikely to remain alive if they did not move quickly. He suspected it was because the Matini family was involved; they were less than known for returning hostages in one still-breathing piece.

Thus, while they had been able to assemble their team quickly, the plan had been hazardously tentative. Boris preferred to have a good, exhaustive plan, but he knew they had no choice. If he recalled correctly, Lee Johnson's exact wording had been "let's get there and see what happens." The very nonexistence of any real plan was not reassuring.

They were presently on the outskirts of West Milford, in an area Boris had never ventured. Indeed, before today, he had never considered visiting Milford. Other than the guards in front of them, no one could be seen, and there was little background noise. Even the constant stream of traffic that one would find in most cities was absent, and the area itself seemed to be sleeping. It had taken them several hours to get here after they had received the ransom note—and after the side trip to see Hank's conniving father, of course. Boris suspected the area would have a pristine quality on a better day, one that would invite relaxation, but right now it was anything but endearing.

Unfortunately, his love was with him in this absurd state of affairs. It was not that he disliked having Hank beside him, never that, but that he loathed risking the doctor's wellbeing. Almost as a reminder of his precarious health, Hank coughed softly beside him, swearing under his breath as he tried to stifle the sound. Quietly, Boris handed him a bottle of water that he had pulled from his car right before abandoning the black Porsche half a mile back. He then carefully worked off the jacket to his Armani suit and placed it around Hank's shuddering shoulders.

His doctor gave him a shaky nod, drinking gratefully and pulling his arms through the jacket. While the jacket was obviously too large for Hank's smaller frame, it would not hamper movement and it would, at least, help keep him warm. The shudders continued, but not as noticeably. To the German's surprise, Hank carefully squeezed Boris' hand, rubbing his thumb with his own. Even more, his touch lingered far longer than Boris would have expected. Boris looked at him carefully, intrigued. After a moment, Hank almost shyly looked up at the baron through his dark eyelashes, smiling slightly before quickly turning away.

Boris found himself staring at this, wondering if he had truly seen . . . was Hank _flirting_ with him? Was the good doctor actually beginning to return his affections? That shy look almost made him think so. In the cover of darkness, Boris allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction. His smile strengthened at the fact that his love was wearing Boris' clothing, even willingly. It was a mark of possession that Boris hoped he would be able to replicate under fairer circumstances.

At least one front seemed to be advancing, but Boris knew that there were problems elsewhere.

Momentarily, the baron allowed himself to sigh, glancing quickly at his doctor. The man was irritatingly stubborn. Boris had attempted to talk Hank into staying at the estate, like any reasonable doctor would do in his current condition, but he was quickly realizing that Hank was the very antithesis of _reasonable_ when he had his mind set on something. He had refused to stay in the car while they took care of the kidnappers. Furthermore, the stubborn man had even refused to stay outside in their current position, simply watching what happened as Boris' agents took the building. Boris swore that Johnson looked like he would throttle the doctor for his obstinacy. Hank made a mule look positively rational.

Hank coughed once more, trying to suppress the sound in the crook of his arms. For a moment, Boris was tempted to drag the stubborn man to his car by his ears. He knew it would be impossible to keep Hank from coming to West Milford, given Hank's rather obstinate disposition, but he had hoped that the man would show some sense and stay in the car. Even the stubborn Hank had to acknowledge that being outside on a cold night, resting on even colder ground had to equate to blatant stupidity.

Boris was all but set to lecture his love as he had never lectured him before, but he knew Hank. The doctor would be completely adamant about this since it was his brother's life at stake. He would probably start yelling at full capacity, drawing unwanted attention to them and likely getting himself killed in the bargain. Instead of delivering a heated argument that he felt was more than warranted, thus, Boris bit down on his annoyance and glared at the good doctor.

Hank had the gall to sullenly glare back at him.

Boris shook his head, remembering that insane moment when he had rather reasonably and logically asked Hank to stay behind at the mansion.

The suggestion had met nothing even loosely approaching agreement.

His feisty doctor had dragged him right from the security room, eyes fiery and passionate, full of life. Only moments ago, his eyes had been hollow, even blank. His father's treachery had hurt Hank more than the doctor wanted to admit. Boris had been pleased by this change, at least momentarily, preferring the fire to the almost deadened look the doctor had earlier possessed.

However, that pleasure had rapidly changed to outright annoyance. Although Boris was nearly a foot taller and much more sturdily built, Hank had grimly hauled him straight from the room, like a recalcitrant child. No one had dragged Boris anywhere in years, not since he had reached his teens. To say that his security officers had been shocked was sheer understatement. The most commonly imperturbable Lee Johnson, his head security officer and a man with years of experience in espionage, had watched him, his mouth literally hanging wide open. Thankfully, Johnson had wisely refrained from commenting, for Boris was fairly sure that Hank would have decked the man.

Once out of the room, Hank's ire had, unfortunately, not quenched.

"How could you even suggest this, Boris?" Hank had snapped, pacing once more. They were standing somewhat awkwardly in the hall, and Hank's tension was obvious in the set of his shoulders and the muscle pulsing in his jaw. "He's _my brother._ There is no way in _hell_ I'm staying here why you go and play hero with my brother's life!"

Boris had blinked at this, somewhat nonplussed. After a moment, he calmly caught the doctor, trying to keep the man from overstressing his body so much. "Doctor, while I know he is your brother," he started, his voice neutral, "you have been ill. Surely you must understand that—"

There was no understanding. Once more, Hank walked right into his personal space, warmth radiating from his slender figure and making Boris swallow hard. Certain parts of the baron's anatomy were all too interested in the doctor's proximity, and Boris forced himself to breathe steadily. Given their predicament, he could not even imagine what Hank would do if he noticed Boris had an erection—actually, that was not quite true. He _could _imagine such a scene, and it was not the pleasant scene of requited affection and passion he would have liked. No, it was something more like what had happened earlier to Lawson, with Hank punching him squarely in the jaw.

Thankfully, Hank had been too riled up to notice much of anything but his own anger.

While he attempted to calm his physical reaction to Hank, the good doctor pointed one accusing finger at him. "I don't care if I'm on my deathbed, Boris, I'm not staying here. There is no damned way you're going to make me stay here while you try to 'save'—" he said the word savagely, eyes all but flashing "—my brother and end up getting him _killed_ with your tactics!"

At this, Boris was hard pressed not to roll his eyes. He forced himself to calmly count to ten before replying, "I know you disagree with how I handled this, Hank, but—"

"You're damn right I disagree," Hank interrupted, again pacing up and down the hall. "You could have gotten him killed just by contacting your agents!"

As Boris was about to defend his actions, Hank shook his head. "I'm grateful that your people found out about the Matini family and that you went with me to see my . . . father," Hank practically spit the word _father_, "I really am, Boris . . . but that doesn't change how you endangered Evan by ignoring the kidnappers' instructions. He could already be dead because _you _had to act like you knew better!"

Boris, of course, did not mention the very real fact that he _did _know better. Almost anyone living in the Hamptons knew better. Hank was not ready or willing to hear of Boris' experience with similar situations. Though he had hinted at his experience in situations like this previously, Hank would probably throttle him for doing so again.

Hank had then sharply inhaled, seeming to suddenly realize just how close he was standing to the German noble. He backed away somewhat nervously, coughing and clearing his throat, right before looking at Boris with dark, determined eyes. "If this were your brother, Boris," he started, "you wouldn't stay behind no matter what. Evan deserves this from me—we've had our difficulties, but he's my brother. Nothing is keeping me from going with you."

For a good five seconds, Boris had contemplated using a sedative to keep his love safe, but he finally relented. Hank was exactly right. He could just imagine the depths to which he would go if someone had taken Hank instead of Evan. There was nothing he would have shied from doing if it meant Hank's safe return.

Now, hours later, Boris almost wished he had used the sedative. Hank needed to be here, and he agreed with this, but it would be so much easier to retrieve Evan if Hank were not present. Boris knew that Hank likely would have punched him if tried, but the punch would have been after the fact: after Evan was rescued, _after_ Boris had done what needed to be done. He simply could not do everything he would normally do in such a situation with Hank beside him. Quite simply, he did not want Hank to realize just how ruthless his actions could be when he had the right incentive. Someday, Hank would know—and he believed that Hank already suspected some of his darker tendencies—but right now, so early in their relationship, was not the time for such revelations. _Suspecting_ and _knowing_ were two entirely different things.

Once more pinching the arch of his nose in a gesture that was rapidly becoming common for him when in his love's presence, Boris glanced at Hank and noted his white skin almost flashing in the moonlight. It was a wonder neither of them had been spotted given their less than appropriate attire. With any luck, it would not get them killed.

Hours passed: painfully, intolerably _slow_ hours. In that time, the guard had changed once. There were still three men in front of the building, which left at least three others inside. He would imagine there were more, for while the building was really little more than a shack, it seemed to have enough space for two or three rooms. He imagined the guards were taking turns and sleeping between rotations.

Boris carefully glanced at his watch, frowning. It was well after three in the morning. Within hours, the soft light of early morning would begin to filter across West Milford. If they wanted to maintain an edge of surprise—and if they wanted to assure themselves of Evan's continued good health, no matter how lamentable the idea—they would need to move soon.

That was perfectly acceptable, for Hank was getting progressively chilled. There was no way the moist earth was helping the doctor in his already ailing condition. While Hank tried to hide the coughs, they were increasing in frequency and duration; Boris had no doubt that continued exposure would put the doctor right back in the condition he had been several days ago. Thus, the sooner they grabbed Evan and dragged him out of that shack, kicking and screaming if need be (for he had no doubt that the forever annoying Evan would be equally aggravating even in a situation such as this), the better.

Johnson carefully crawled to his side, followed a second later by Lever. They looked at Boris, eyebrows raised, weapons ready. After a few moments, Johnson tilted his head towards the building.

It was time.

Without even a word, Boris nudged Hank, pulling him up slightly by his left elbow and moving towards the target. Hank's eyes flew wide, but to his credit, he quickly joined Boris without hesitation. They slowly crawled down the hill, keeping to the darkest stretches of shadow as much as they could. Johnson went first, followed quickly by Lever, Boris, Hank, and their third agent, Miller.

Johnson moved into position, almost in sight of the guards but just edged enough back that no one could see them. He then smiled slyly, placing a finger over his lips and waving the group to maintain their silence.

Carefully, Boris watched as the guards laughed at something he could not see or hear. One was smoking while the other two were leaning against the building, one closing his eyes as his companion all but drooled over a copy of _Penthouse_. Boris smirked at this; typical criminal underlings, only somewhat paying attention to their duty. This could prove helpful to them. Quickly, the baron studied the guards' weaponry. Assault rifles were tossed over their shoulders. From what little Boris could see in the fragmented light shimmering through cracks in the small building, there were other weapons as well, mainly handguns and knives.

This was no surprise, of course, but he would have felt more confident if the men were less well armed. And, of course, he would have been quite pleased if there were fewer of them.

Johnson slowly pulled out a strange contraption from the small black bag he had draped over his back. It took Boris a moment to realize that the contraption was actually a very small dart gun. Lever and Miller pulled out similar instruments from their own utility bags, and within seconds the three men were shooting darts at the guards. Boris quickly slid beside Hank, placing his hands on the doctor's shoulders as the actual business of taking the building began.

There was a soft _thunk_, and, simultaneously, three darts filled with what Boris knew was some sort of paralytic agent were embedded in the guards' necks. The men shuddered, gasping slightly. One managed to almost reach his rifle, but Johnson quickly slammed the man to the ground and shoved his arm against his throat. The man slowly stopped resisting, his eyes finally fluttering shut.

It was all done silently, so silently that the hoot of an owl rung through the night air, but nothing more. By Boris' watch, it had taken less than twenty seconds.

Softly, Hank gasped beside him, his eyes wide as he watched Boris' agents move the stricken guards away from the door. They dumped their paralyzed bodies in the deepest shadows beside the shack, returning just as silently. Hank gulped, eyebrows almost as high as his hairline, but he smiled shakily at Boris' concerned gaze. The doctor took a quick moment to check for pulses, and the shaky smile was much more convincing when he found the men quite alive. Boris would have rolled his eyes, but he could just imagine Hank's reaction to that.

Johnson held one hand up, four fingers up, thumb down. He started to count down.

When the hand was finally a fist, all fingers clenched together, Johnson and Lever slammed into the building's door while Miller stayed beside Boris and Hank. Chips of wood splintered everywhere, and Boris quickly pushed Hank's head down so that the sharp splinters would not hit him. A wooden chair toppled to the ground, having been overturned as the door smashed into it. He thought he heard a table scratching across the floor, dislodged by their entry.

Cautiously, the baron peeked into the room when no answering fire was heard. The splinters finally settled to the ground, and dust lingered in the air. Silence met his ears, unsettling and surreal. Boris warily surveyed the area.

The ticking of a clock echoed in the empty room, slow and steady, almost like the ticking of a bomb. A bare bulb poured harsh light across the small entry room, and Boris could see two tiny rooms branching behind the entry, both less than the size of one of his bathrooms. Their doors, wood graying with disuse and lack of maintenance, were shut. His eyes then flicked over the entry room, noting a deck of cards and four unattended drinks sitting on a diminutive card table.

_Tick tick tick_ went the clock.

Miller carefully slid along the left wall while Lever took the right. Johnson moved in front of Boris and Hank. His brow furrowed and his eyes wide, Hank stared at the four drinks. Quietly, he examined the two doors. He settled a quick palm against the still upright chairs, nodding slightly.

'They're warm,' he mouthed at Boris, who nodded. There was no doubt that these men had been here only moments before.

_Tick tick tick_.

_Next Chapter: Plan D Continued. _Will Hank be less stubborn? Will Boris save the day? Will Evans ever get rescued? Are there _really _only three bad guys? Stay tuned to find out . . . more boom, more bullets, some desperate running, all types of chaos are to follow!

_Thanks, reviewers! _You spoil me! :-) Things will be heating up between Boris and Hank in the next Plan arc, so hang in there.


	10. Plan D: Run Like Hell

_Summary: _Intrigued by his new concierge doctor, Boris schemes on how to more fully integrate Hank into both the Hamptons and Boris' own life. One plan after the next leads to mixed failure and success. Poor Boris!

_A/N:_ Chapter Ten continues the Plan D arc. This is a bit shorter than some of the other chapters, but Chapter Eleven will be a hefty one.

**Chapter Ten**

**Plan D:**

**Run Like Hell**

The door to the left suddenly exploded open, gunfire pounding into the once-silent entry room. _Plink plink plink_ rattled the bullets, slamming down in a lethal shower of lead. The scent of gunpowder floated heavily in the air, and dark smoke thickened the air with an almost palpable haze.

Boris grabbed Hank's left arm and threw him against the nearest wall, watching as he dropped to the ground. The baron quickly fell to the floor on his own side, arms up, blocking the shrapnel as it flew everywhere. Splinters of wood, chunks of plaster, ragged pieces of shredded soda cans, and God alone knew what else whizzed through the air, plummeting to the floor in dangerous, pointed heaps of ruin. Bullets pierced the cheap windows across the room, glass shards flying through the air before clinking to the cement floor.

Barely able to keep his head below the shower of deadly wreckage, Boris crawled across the room until he was closer to Hank. Debris hurtled towards him, falling around or on top of him; glass clung to his flesh, piercing into the palm of his hand as well as his knees. At last, he reached Hank and pushed him more fully to the ground, growling as the man tried to push Boris down instead. He felt stabbing pain radiate up his left arm when the window above them finally shattered, its pieces slashing into him. Hank hissed, too, ducking his head and trying to wrestle Boris further down.

Plaster dust rained down on them, and through its haze Boris could barely see Johnson shooting into the enemy, Lever and Miller continuing to circle from the side. The former Mossad agents were crawling on the floor, too, trying to avoid the gunfire. He barely saw Johnson shoot the light bulb, blanketing the room in darkness, before ducking as the jagged glass flew right beside them.

Boris spared a glance at Hank, who was now looking up. In the dim moonlight flooding through the now broken windows, Boris saw dirt and white powder clinging to the doctor's skin. It was probably plaster. The German noble could barely see a trickle of blood working its way down Hank's right temple. He could not tell if the wound was from a bullet or from shrapnel, but he was certain of one thing. Rage unlike anything he had ever felt filled his blood, roiling through his veins and making him grind his teeth.

These men had hurt his doctor. They would pay for their mistake.

However, Boris' vengeful thoughts were immediately halted when Hank determinedly pressed his lips together, breathed carefully, then started slinking towards the door on the right. Bullets continued to whiz through the air, tunneling into what remained of the walls and windows, shooting projectiles in all directions. Hank escaped a large chunk of glass by only seconds, his face grim and his pace no slower despite the dangers.

What the—?

Apparently, his doctor had thoroughly lost his mind. "Hank!" Boris yelled, scrambling after his insane love as quickly as he could. "Get the _bloody hell down!"_

If Hank was shocked at the German's cursing, he didn't show it. He simply turned to Boris, his eyes angrily flicking to him right before he continued to creep towards the room on the right.

_Oh, for the love of all things holy_, Boris thought furiously. The doctor was going to get himself _killed!_

Growling, Boris pushed himself to his hands and feet and ran at a low crouch, ignoring the plaster and flying fragments falling on him. Hank surely had a death wish. _Boris_ apparently had one, too, for if he kept up this insanity, he knew he was five seconds from needing a casket. About the only positive thing Boris could see was that Johnson had shot out the light bulb. At least the enemy could not easily see them.

Lividly—and wishing he could wring the doctor's throat—Boris cursed Hank's dubious sanity, immense inability to see reason, and all-around stubbornness. Was the man _trying _to get them killed? He was practically snarling when he finally reached Hank's side in seconds that seemed like minutes before once more slamming the doctor to the floor.

"What the _hell_ do you think you are doing, Doctor?" he whispered heatedly, lips pressed to Hank's ear. They were only inches away from the room on the right, which was still shut.

"Evan's in there, damn it!" Hank snapped back, his own eyes angry. Blood ran into one eye, and he blinked. "He could be getting hit by the crossfire!"

There was no safety in this room, for despite the darkness in the room, they were perfect targets. Only the constant fire from his men was keeping them from drawing their enemies' fire and being killed instantaneously. Boris was unsure if staying here was truly an option, but he also doubted that bursting into a shut room, one that was probably locked, was the best option. They did not even know if Evan was in the room.

Hank obviously thought otherwise as he finally kicked his foot against Boris' leg, twisted out of his grasp, grabbed Boris' _gun_, and slammed his slender body against the door.

Miraculously, it shot open.

Boris was shouting in pure horror when he saw two men inside, their guns pointed at Hank . . . who stood in momentary paralysis.

Oh, God, if these bastards did not kill Hank first, Boris was going to spank Hank like the impudent child he was. He was going to paddle that nice little ass of his until the good doctor could no longer sit without wincing.

Providing Boris did not simply strangle him instead.

Right now, Boris could not see any way of getting out of this with both of them alive.

* * *

His heart beat slowly: thump, thump, thummmpppp. The moment seemed stretched, drawn out, as Boris moved. He felt his legs rise, his hands pushing him up into a crouch, completely incognizant of the pelting bullets around him. Slowly, as if his legs were weighted with solid lead, he ran towards Hank. Sludge seemed to fill the air, the moment dragging, dragging . . . _tick tick tick_ he heard the clock . . . _plink plink plink_ he heard the bullets ricocheting around him, the mad dash of human destruction . . .

And he tackled Hank down to the floor, only aware as he did so that Hank was already falling, the gun pointed in front of him, aimed, fire streaking from the muzzle and dark powder hanging in the air. The stench of gunpowder seemed impossibly strong, and Boris could have sworn that he watched that bullet slowly emerge from the gun, like he was watching in slow motion. His ears lost their sound, his mouth lost taste: everything but sight died to his senses as he watched that bullet slide out of the gun in Hank's hand. His heart froze, stopped beating entirely when, at what seemed the same time, he watched a bullet that could have hit his love fly centimeters away from his shoulder, miraculously hitting the wall behind them.

_Whack._

Fire burned through his senses as they abruptly returned to him, and he felt himself falling, Hank underneath him. He heard the gun scrape against the concrete floor, the black metal shape spinning on the ground; he heard Hank grunt as the concrete slammed against his chest. Boris grabbed the gun from the floor, pulled it up, and aimed, again feeling like the world was moving at a quarter of its normal speed. Light flared from the muzzle, aimed at the person in front of him; he could no longer see his enemy's companion. Perhaps he was dead, injured, perfectly fine—Boris simply did not know.

"Boris, get down!" shouted Hank, hauling the German down from above him with a twist of his wrist. Seconds later, Boris could have sworn that he felt the burning trail of a bullet pass over his head, where his temple would have been seconds ago.

Boris edged up to quickly squeeze the trigger, sweat dripping into his eyes.

A scream and a shout, and Boris looked up to see their current opponent fall to the floor. Boris did not bother to check whether this foe would rise once more. He had no time for that, not when Hank was even now crawling towards the quivering lump of clothing and skin that looked suspiciously like Evan. He hastily crawled right after his love, watching as Hank carefully turned that lump over and, swallowing hard, moved shaking hands down to its throat.

Evan's green eyes flew open, the man shaking so badly that it seemed he would fall apart. His lips curved downwards, teeth pressed into his bottom lip while he tried to look at what was touching him.

"Evan," Hank softly whispered, looking at Evan, then at Boris. The baron had by now reached Hank's side, and he protectively squatted beside the Lawson boys, eyes sharply watching everything around them. "It's me . . . we're going to get you out of here."

Boris noticed that Hank had not blatantly lied to Evan by saying that everything was safe now. They were still far from safe.

"H-Hank?" Evan stuttered, then he moaned. "I'm dreamin'. It's not real. You're not really here." He squeezed his eyes shut. Tears glimmered against his lashes, not falling down his cheeks but moments from doing so.

Hank gently squeezed his brother's hands, starting to untie him as carefully as possible while still keeping a wary eye on the doorway. Boris leaned in to quickly assist, though he kept the gun in his right hand and one eye on the door.

"It's me, really me, Evan," Hank assured his brother softly. He wiped blood out of his eye, smiling shakily. "Who else would come after your sorry hide out in the middle of nowhere?" he teased gently. Boris knew he was trying to get his brother's mind to start working past its terror and paralysis. Amazingly, the teasing seemed to work, for Evan slowly swallowed, looking suspiciously at Hank as if he had never seen him before.

After a second of silent staring, Evan finally managed, "Y-you're . . . you're really here, Hank . . . God, you're here . . ."

The tears abruptly poured down Evan's face, and he started making choking sounds. Hank carefully wrapped his arms around his brother, continuously whispering, "I'm here . . . we're going to get you out of here. Just hang on." He looked almost as terrified as Evan did, the tears shining in his eyes as he saw the shape his brother was in. Evan did not seem injured, but he did seem traumatized by the experience of being held captive.

The good doctor bit into his lower lip, swallowing hard. Regrettably, Hank then inhaled deeply in what Boris determined was an attempt to calm his nerves; the move was inopportune because it left him coughing for a good thirty seconds.

"Easy, Hank," the German baron mumbled, rubbing a hand across Hank's back. On the positive side, it looked like Hank's cough had somehow managed to shake Evan out of his tears. The younger brother was looking up at him with confusion, trying to understand what was happening and why.

Boris met Hank's eyes, his own pointing towards the door and outside in a clear message that they needed to quickly leave the building. Unfortunately, while he understood that Evan needed comforting and that Hank needed to give that comfort, Boris knew they were in no condition right now to do so. He was not positive how many of the enemy remained, and until they were at least in his car, they would not be safe.

A silent look of understanding passed between them—one that Boris momentarily allowed himself to treasure, given the contention and outright volatility that had struck between the two of them today—and Hank gently began to lead Evan to the door.

"We need to go, Ev," he told his brother, an arm wrapped around the younger Lawson's shaking shoulders, "but I need you to keep low. Can you do that for me?"

Boris was unable to stop himself from rolling his eyes. He was damnably tempted to ask the same question of Hank, the good _I-shall-run-foolhardily-into-danger-like-an-idiot_ doctor.

"Uh huh," Evan breathed, nodding slightly. Boris was uncomfortably reminded of a child simply agreeing with an elder to get out of a terrifying situation. It was obvious that Evan was not completely with them right now, but he supposed Hank could help him later.

Hank nodded slightly, as if Evan's response was exactly what he was hoping to hear, before inching his head towards the door. _Oh, for . . ._ Once more seeing red, this time quite literally, the German almost growled at his love's recklessness; he quickly shoved Hank back. After shooting Hank a grim glare, Boris leaned in front of the doctor and peered out.

It was strangely empty in that entry room.

Where minutes ago had been relentless firepower, now, there was nothing.

Even his men had disappeared.

Boris pulled back, frowning darkly. His eyes were unusually anxious when he quickly glanced at Hank and Evan, making sure they were still partially hidden behind him. They simply stared back at him, Evan somewhat listlessly, Hank much more aware. Hank's eyes were just as puzzled as Boris' were. The silence of the building was enough to send chills up and down the billionaire's spine. He abruptly found his mouth dry and swallowed. The sound was almost unnerving in the silence surrounding them.

As quietly as possible, he loaded a new magazine into the Glock before looking into the entry room once more. Still nothing.

Every instinct he had was screaming at him in alarm.

As he edged into the entry room, Boris could almost hear the _tick tick tick_ of the clock, and once more it reminded him all too much of a bomb. Hank and Evan followed him, their steps alarmingly noticeable in the heavy silence. Glass and plaster and woodchips crunched beneath their steps, far too loud in this impenetrable quiet. Someone accidentally bumped into what remained of the table, scraping it on the floor.

They all ducked, waiting for gunfire, for _anything, _but nothing came. After a minute of tense silence, they resumed their track through the darkened room.

Slowly, carefully, every sense of wariness and alarm clanging—even Evan looked like he was awakening from his stupor, his face now white with terror—they slid through the now doorless main entry until they were outside. They stared into the deep shadows.

* * *

_Next Chapter: Plan D Finished. _The next chapter finishes the Plan D arc. It will be a long chapter, too. There are more things that go boom, more bad guys, and an insane run through the dark. Poor Hank just isn't feeling too good, either.

_Thanks, reviewers! _You spoil me! :-) I'm glad you're enjoying this. I've had a lot of fun with the guys running around in circles, trying to figure out how they feel about each other even as they have all sorts of nasty things confronting them.


	11. Plan D: Breathe

_Summary: _Intrigued by his new concierge doctor, Boris schemes on how to more fully integrate Hank into both the Hamptons and Boris' own life. One plan after the next leads to mixed failure and success. Poor Boris!

_A/N:_ Chapter Eleven finishes the Plan D arc. A nice, long chapter! :-)

**Chapter Eleven**

**Plan D:**

**Breathe**

And then chaos abruptly exploded upon them. Black-clad figures started running from every direction. He had no idea where these people came from, for they certainly were not the same men they had fought earlier. Even in the darkness of night, he could tell that their clothing was too clean, too unblemished by plaster dust and window shards to have been in their original fight. Naturally, there were now more of them, too.

Though he kept his voice soft, Boris heatedly cursed in every language he knew. Of course there were more men. Nothing was ever simple with Hank and Evan involved. Thus, he knew he should have expected the extra opponents; it would have been far too easy otherwise. With a roll of his eyes, Boris ran as fast as he could, charging for the shadows and shaking his head. He yanked Hank and Evan after him.

Apparently, the kidnappers had been intelligent enough to have back up. Who knew where the bastards had been hiding? He supposed they might be newly arrived reinforcements or perhaps perimeter guards.

However, as far as he was concerned, it could mean only one thing: their luck was infamously, nauseatingly _bad_.

They continued to sprint away from the building into the welcoming cover of darkness, now running at full speed as the four, no, _five_ figures dressed in black came dashing after them. Cursing under his breath, now in German, Boris pulled his new cellphone from his pocket—amazed that it was still fairly in one piece, despite the scratch marks and nicks that had not been there earlier—and shouted into its chipped mouthpiece, "Now! Come pick us up!"

"Where—?" a frustrated voice asked through the speaker. That would be Swanson. The younger ex-Mossad agent had stayed in the second car, the Mercedes GL, just in case they needed a quick escape. Boris had expected that they might need one, as had Johnson. Swanson had been anything but pleased by his selection as glorified getaway man, and his voice even now clearly reflected that displeasure.

Now that he thought about it, maybe they should have had a spare helicopter waiting, given the unfriendly welcoming party and Hank's tendency to attract all sorts of unexpected and terrifying trouble. The man quite frankly seemed to be a magnet for it.

"By the buildi—" Boris began, only to find himself holding a burning bundle of plastic. A bullet hole reflected from smack in the middle of his once immaculate screen.

For a second, he stared at the phone, blinking. What was it with Hank's near presence and his cellphones lately? This would be his second cellphone to die in less than 24 hours.

He then dropped its useless form to the ground, muttering several appropriate German obscenities, and looked wildly for a safe area to run. Trees, trees, and more trees met his sight, though admittedly some of the trees looked perfect for an ambush. He found no obvious spot that seemed safer than any other path, so he simply veered to the right and ran. If he recalled correctly, Swanson was somewhere in this general vicinity.

He wondered where the hell Johnson, Miller, and Lever were.

They continued running, the trees and grass blurring past them. Before his cellphone had met its grim fate at the impact of a bullet, Boris knew that Swanson would have used the phone's GPS to locate him. However, right now, there was no way for the agent to trace their path. They would need to find an accessible location—obviously, even the Mercedes could not travel through a tree trunk—and they would need to keep in a somewhat linear track to Swanson's current location.

The next time Hank's brother needed rescuing, Boris swore he was going to board his jet and fly to Cuba as quickly as possible. He would just knock out Hank and drag him with him.

"Where the hell is the rest of your team?" Hank managed to ask through a coughing fit. The doctor tried to wipe the blood out of his eye even as he continued to cough. Boris quickly placed his arm under the younger man's shoulders and helped press him forward, knowing that Hank's lungs had to be burning. The ragged coughs continued, seeming to worsen the longer they ran. Even Evan was pulling out of his daze enough to notice that something was dreadfully wrong with his brother. "They—they se-see-_seem_—oh, _fuck_, he-hell with it!" The doctor finally gave up after trying to speak through a coughing fit that left him running while bending over as he struggled to breathe.

"Unknown," Boris simply responded to Hank's question. He continued urging his love forward, trying to support his heaving back and chest by leaning the doctor against his own side. He kept a steady arm around the doctor's shoulders, making sure the young man did not fall over or drop behind, then draped one of Hank's arms around his waist to help keep him upright. "But we need to keep moving."

The look of annoyance that Hank shot him told the German in no subtle terms that Hank thought Boris was being an idiot for stating the obvious.

Boris kept pulling him forward, glaring at Evan as the confounded idiot tried to slow down and see what was wrong with his brother. He understood why, but stopping in the middle of a gunfight was nothing short of suicide. And, really, Boris had not put all of this effort into rescuing the baboon only to have him killed now. On top of that, dealing with one suicidal brother was enough, was it not?

Bullets abruptly started whizzing past them, much closer than before. Boris could barely see a tree to the right lose its limb in the barrage of fire, wood splintering into the air. The darkness was starting to lighten into early dawn, and now he could see a bit more of what was around them. Unfortunately, that meant the enemy could see better, too. Dragging Hank with him, he ran at full speed, faster than he ever had, and prayed that Swanson would soon arrive.

Evan tripped over a root, shouting when he went down. Hank left the German's side and moved over to help him up. Unfortunately, his love almost tumbled right on his face. His breaths were coming heavily, wheezing, and Boris was certain that his face was white from more than the dust that had settled on it. The blood dripping down his face did not comfort Boris in the least.

Clearly, Hank and Evan were not going to be able to run quickly, not now.

As he watched Hank struggle to pull Evan up—struggling even to keep himself up, actually—Boris stepped several feet back. The brothers needed to be protected at all costs. He would try to give them cover so they could gain some distance from their assailants. With any luck and providing he somehow miraculously survived the next sixty seconds, he would meet up with them in just a few minutes.

Once more, the German had that odd sensation of time slowing, even stopping. He watched Evan finally stand up, stumbling slightly but beginning to run when Hank pushed him forward. Behind him, Boris could hear their pursuers drawing closer and closer. Muffled shouts reached his ears, though he could not understand them.

A light breeze suddenly kicked in, gently pushing Hank's shirt. Hank stopped for a moment, slowly looking over his shoulder at Boris. The doctor was supporting himself on a tree, breathing haggardly, eyes blinking as he tried to squint past the blood. He opened his mouth to speak, but the baron could tell that he had no breath for speech. Almost painfully slowly, Hank leaned over, forearms resting on his knees. Boris simply shook his head at the doctor. He waved his hands, trying to urge Hank to run, to escape.

Concerned, Boris again noticed how white his love was. He watched while Hank continued to gasp, one arm over his chest. Evan pulled further away. He did not seem to realize that his brother was no longer with him. He simply continued to run.

The German heard a noise behind him. Exhaustion burned through him when he turned to look over his shoulder, his own steps beginning to be unsteady, even weaving.

Horror shot through him.

No.

Heart beating insanely, breath abruptly constricted, Boris watched as a man lifted his assault rifle, pointing it at the brothers.

_NO!_

He shot alarmed eyes towards Hank, who was staring in the opposite direction. "Get down! Now!" he roared, eyes wide, terrified. He launched his body towards him_._

Hank started to move, shouting in a strangled voice, "Evan! Move!"

All Boris could see was Hank: his love was not yet down. Boris lifted his gun, hands shaking as they never had before, and pulled the trigger. The recoil slammed into his wrists, but he continued to shoot. At the same time, Boris blurred towards Hank. Moving faster than he ever had, he pushed the doctor to the ground, falling on top of him. He pulled his arms up to protect his love, encircling his head fiercely.

Wildly, Boris looked over his shoulder. He watched their opponent fall to the ground. Blood dripped from his shoulder and stomach, and he did not move.

Seconds later, Boris ducked his head once more. The _plink plink plink_ of a fired weapon trilled around them, and he could hear bullets whiz past them. A bullet passed overhead: barely. Fragments of a nearby rock shattered near him, but he just pressed his face closer to Hank's neck.

Abruptly, an almost deafening rumble roared through the air, shaking the ground. Boris could feel his eardrums popping, and he ducked, completely confused. What on earth—? Light flashed across the darkened woods, followed by three more bright, searing flashes of light. Each time, the earth shook beneath him and a roar swept through his hearing. Clumps of dirt, grass, and trees flew into the air. Rocks rained down on them, though he had the distinct impression that the scene behind them was even worse. He could smell wood burning, smoke pouring into the air. Screams echoed around them, then were suddenly silenced.

After a few seconds, only silence blanketed the area.

"What the hell just happened?" Evan murmured from several feet away, his voice strained. He was just lifting his head. Boris could see Evan's eyes looking at them, blinking rapidly.

Boris coughed softly, trying to clear the smoke from his lungs. His eyes stung, burned. He felt Hank coughing beneath him and lifted his chest off of Hank as much as possible while still protectively laying on top of the doctor.

"I believe my agents have returned," he said simply. Carefully, he brushed Hank's hair back, worried at Hank's continued silence. Except for the coughing, his love had not made a sound.

"Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck!" _Evan finally snapped, eyes wide. He watched Boris' hand carding through Hank's hair for a second before demanding, "What'd they use? Sticks of blasted _dynamite?"_

Boris, despite his growing concern for Hank, found himself staring at Evan. "Dynamite?" he repeated, nonplussed. After a second, he dismissed the idea as yet another proof of Evan's foolishness. "No. Dynamite is too volatile for these types of missions." His voice drifted, and he nodded. "Probably grenades. Concussion grenades, maybe."

"Grenades—really?" Evan asked. He swallowed hard, trying to get a good look at Hank but apparently not succeeding. He finally snapped, voice still low but heated, "Are the bast'rds dead?"

"Yes, I believe so. Some of them, at least," Boris muttered, peering towards the building. He thought he saw dead bodies and blood, but it was difficult to tell. He then looked at the quiet body of his love beneath him.

Silence hung in the air. It was a cold, chilling silence. He waited for the gunfire to resume, but it did not. All was still, silent, cold—dead.

They all lay mutely, listening to the silence, waiting for the next barrage of weapons to come. They listened, afraid to speak. In the distance, Boris could now hear the faint _plink plink plink_ of guns firing again, but it seemed far removed from them now. He could only guess that his agents had taken the fight elsewhere.

"Hank? Are you all right?" Boris demanded at last. He continued brushing Hank's hair back, noticing that his breathing seemed to be easing though it was still painful sounding. As he listened to his love's strained breaths, he tried to pinpoint the remaining trace of bullets firing, but even that was slowly dying out.

Once more, silence blanketed the area. It was now complete silence. All he heard was the slight wheeze of Hank's breathing.

"Hank? Answer me!" Boris urged in concern, actually fear. He shook the doctor's arm. "Are you all right?" he repeated.

Hank's answer took moments in coming.

"Um huh," Hank at last mumbled, voice husky. He shuddered beneath Boris, and the German stared down at him in alarm. Had he injured Hank when he knocked him down? Perhaps he had hurt him, made it harder for him to breathe, especially since he had been wheezing only moments earlier? His alarm was turning into something all too close to panic when Hank cleared his throat. "Um . . . Boris . . . could you . . . ?"

"What, doctor?" Boris asked quickly, looking at his love with careful eyes. Hank turned his head slightly, and Boris could see his face in vague profile. Blood smeared his right cheek and jaw, but the bleeding had eased to a slight trickle. Beneath the dust and grit, the man's cheeks were flushed, almost as if his fever had strengthened. Hank had been running a low-grade fever all day, but this did not look like a low-grade fever. Immediately, Boris' fingers were on Hank's forehead, almost faster than he had been while knocking Hank down to safety. "Do you need anything?"

He was suddenly very conscious of Evan staring at them. In the partial light of dawn, Evan's eyes were large, the green irises almost entirely visible. Despite the insane situation, his gaze rapidly flicked back and forth between Boris and Hank, eyebrows lifting sharply the longer he looked.

"Yeah . . . uh, Boris, could you . . . move off me?" Hank managed to croak.

Abruptly, Boris understood something. He blinked. That flush was not because Hank's fever was worsening. It was simply because Hank was _blushing._

Boris allowed himself a small smile, temporarily ignoring their lethally precarious situation for a moment of personal triumph. He could not be entirely certain, of course, but in this case he thought the good doctor's blushing might be a good sign. Judging from the speculative look on Evan's face, he was not the only one thinking that Hank's blush meant something.

Slowly, he pulled himself off Hank's backside, relishing the feel of the slender body and tight muscles rippling beneath him. His hands gently caressed the doctor's left side as he rolled to the right. Experimentally, he kept his arm draped over Hank's waist, and he looked at the younger man. Hank was definitely avoiding him, his gaze focused several feet away and his cheeks still bright red.

Boris believed this was what many termed _an awkward moment_.

Hmm. Inch by gradual inch, Boris moved his arm up to Hank's neck, caressing his hairline with careful fingers. Hank once more shuddered, the blush deepening; it was more notable against his too pale skin. Hank coughed several times, seeming unable to stop for a good minute. However, after the paroxysm abated, Boris watched as Hank bit into his lower lip, and he was sorely tempted to reach down with his own lips and nibble.

Evan was outright staring at them, lips slightly parted.

Unfortunately, ravishing his love would not help matters right now, not with the danger surrounding them. This would have to wait until later, preferably when he had Hank all to himself and was well away from guns, grenades, and Mafioso minions chasing after them.

"Hank," he began, his voice deep, almost guttural, "are you all right?"

Hank merely nodded. Boris wondered if his doctor did not trust his own voice. Naturally, it could be the strained lungs, but Boris hoped it was because his doctor was finally realizing that he had feelings for the German.

It was a most inappropriate time for Boris to hope this, but, honestly, who cared?

Evan stared at them for a good five seconds more, eyes sharpening when he noticed that his brother was wearing Boris' Armani jacket. He then exhaled noisily. He clambered to his feet. After clearing his throat and looking anywhere but at Hank and Boris, he asked overly brightly, "So . . . Boris . . . what's the plan now?"

The question completely and irrevocably pulled Boris out of his desirable but wholly inopportune contemplation. He grabbed his fallen gun and blinked at Evan, then carefully helped Hank up. Hank coughed harshly, waving aside their assistance while he looked at Boris. He nervously ran a hand through his curly hair, still looking a bit flustered. "Do you think they're okay?" he rasped, as if his throat were shattered, obviously thinking of Boris' agents, who had abruptly vanished.

Boris glanced behind them. "I believe so, Doctor." He smiled reassuringly. "I am almost completely certain the grenades were theirs. They are probably . . . taking care of stragglers now."

Boris had almost admitted that they were probably on mop-up duty, but he did not want to risk opening _that_ Pandora's box, not tonight, at least. That his men routinely performed mop-up duty and, even more, that Boris _knew it_ would introduce Hank to the darker side of his world far faster than he wished. Given such a reply, he imagined his doctor would immediately start in with a host of questions on just what he had his agents doing on a regular basis. The questions would obviously come at some point, but he did not think that now was the right time. Hank's health was already stressed as it was, and he quite bluntly did not want Evan present when the inevitable argument ensued.

Once more, Boris placed himself at Hank's side. He gently helped the good doctor, making sure to support his unsteady walk. A frowning Evan immediately moved to Hank's other side. Only seconds later, Evan wrapped his arms around Hank's shoulder and chest, his face deeply concerned. Hank's wheezing was increasing—and his skin looked frankly ashen. If Hank got any worse, Boris would carry him.

* * *

It was eerie, running through the silence after such violence. Periodically, Boris heard shots firing into the distance, answered rapidly by yet more firepower. Other than that, the only sound they heard was Hank's strained breathing, which was becoming increasingly irregular. Hank was now shivering uncontrollably and coughing violently, his feet moving shakily, his body barely able to stand.

This had to stop. Boris was five seconds away from lifting his love into his arms, no matter how much the young man protested—providing, of course, that Hank could even speak—when he heard a branch break to the right of them.

He stopped, listening. Evan looked at the surrounding trees, eyes alert. Boris noticed that he was eyeing Hank like he, too, was thinking of just picking his brother up and running for it. _Crack._ He heard another branch break, then something that sounded suspiciously like someone whipping aside a branch.

Without further thought, Boris grabbed his ailing love and gently hoisted him to his shoulders . . . and then ran as fast as his legs could carry him, not even bothering to look behind him. He just ran and ran and ran.

"Bo-Boris—" his love gasped hoarsely, voice so soft the German could barely hear him. Hank rubbed at his shoulder blades, trying to get his attention. "I—c-can r-run—"

_Sure you can_, Boris thought in annoyance. _Of all the absurd, preposterous things to say._ Just _what was it_ about absurdity and the Lawsons? Did it run in their veins? Certainly, Hank could run, once he was able to breathe again without collapsing. Thus, Boris did what he typically did when Hank was being cantankerous: he ignored him.

Boris had been running for what seemed hours. However, he knew in reality it had probably been less than ten minutes, fifteen at the most. From time to time, he glanced at his side. Evan seemed to be managing to keep up with him, though he could tell that the younger man had many questions brimming in his mind. Hank periodically beat against his back, but mostly he tried to breathe through what seemed unending coughing fits. Boris was sure hanging upside down was not helping his love, but he could do little else right now.

"H-how is he?" Evan panted, looking at his brother. Hank was now hanging loosely over Boris' shoulders, and he could barely feel him moving. The younger brother shot a concerned look at Boris, eyebrows raised. "Doesn't . . . doesn't look good."

Boris shot him a derisive look that clearly communicated his thoughts that the younger man was an imbecile. However, after a moment, he replied as calmly as he could, "Not good. You can probably tell better than I can since I cannot see him."

When this was all over, Boris promised himself that he would lock Hank away. Boris would chain Hank to the bed if he had to. All arguments and protestations aside, the good doctor should not have come. The fact that he was almost unconscious, hanging over Boris' shoulder was proof enough.

"Any . . . any idea who's chasin' us?" Evan panted a second later, still panting as he spoke. At the same time, he reached over to Hank and grabbed one of his dangling hands. A smile quickly formed on Evan's face, and he looked at Boris. "He just . . . just squeezed my'and."

After finally interpreting _my'and_ as _my hand, _Boris acknowledged Evan's words with a tight smile. He could feel something inside loosen, something like a knot in his gut. Hank was still conscious.

Continuing to run, Boris heard noises behind them: weapons fire. Quickly, Boris looked over his shoulder. He could see very little clearly, but he did see metal glinting in the moonlight about twenty feet away. _Hell_, he thought, fear hitting his mind. He truly had no idea who was holding that weapon. It could be one of them—or one of their opponents.

At the same time as he realized their vulnerability, he felt his love's arms dangling against his back. If shooting should start, Hank was in an exposed position. A bullet meant for Boris or even Evan could hit Hank instead.

That was clearly unacceptable. He would get Hank out of here alive, no matter what, even if Boris were killed doing it.

Without stopping, Boris smacked the gun into Evan's hand; he ignored the man's wide eyes. He then grabbed Hank and swung him down from the top of his shoulders, now carefully holding him in his arms. Regrettably, it cut down on his running speed, but he could never risk having someone place a bullet in his love's head.

He just hoped that Evan shot the enemy, not them.

They kept running, pushing towards what Boris sincerely hoped was the right direction. Abruptly, they had company. From the left, Johnson and Lever suddenly exploded into the clearing, hauling Miller right behind them. Johnson stopped, dropped to his belly, shouting something at his companions. Firing ensued, Johnson shooting frantically into the darkness. A second later, Johnson tore clear of them, still shooting into the night. If Boris were not highly mistaken, it looked like Johnson was enjoying himself.

Boris shook his head. This night was madness. Where the hell were Swanson and the Mercedes?

Swiftly, Johnson tore back towards them, apparently finished dealing with the closest of their pursuers. As his lungs felt like fire was consuming them, Boris had to wonder where the seemingly endless supply of enemy underlings was coming from. The Matini family was known for being heavy hitters, but this was more organized and prepared than he would have expected, especially given the poorly staffed building the criminals had used to hold Evan. He could only imagine that the back up had arrived by chance, probably to move Evan to another location or something similar.

Shots fired behind them. While the German baron watched them, Lever and Miller now ran breathlessly beside Boris and Evan, both glancing at Hank with concern. Johnson finally ran up beside them, suddenly shooting into a tree as a black-clad figure tried jumping out of the dark towards them. He did not even bother checking to see if the man was dead; instead, he simply pushed forward. As they moved forward, Boris noted with some relief that the trees were giving way to rolling fields. Indeed, in the distance he saw what looked like a dirt road.

He began to think that maybe, just maybe, they might live through this bloody night.

Before Boris could point out the road to his companions, the headlights to the Mercedes swung into view. Boris urged Evan to increase his speed, moving as quickly as he could. Lever stumbled; Johnson grabbed his elbow and pushed him forward. Nestled securely in Boris' arms, Hank stirred slightly. His eyes slid open. The doctor looked at Boris with glassy green eyes, and Boris quickly shot him a comforting smile.

Hank looked around, his gaze seeming a bit disoriented. Boris supposed that was only natural, given that he was being hauled across the woods in the middle of the night while people shot at them. After a moment, Hank whispered so softly that the German could barely hear him, "Where are we?"

He frowned at this, especially since it reminded him all too much of the disorientation Hank had experienced when he was well within the grip of his pneumonia. He hoped it was just the insane situation that was confusing his love—or maybe the fact that he was currently in Boris' arms. After all, in all honesty, it would confuse anyone.

Boris continued running, considering his answer. He finally settled on, "Almost someplace safe, Doctor."

At this, Hank gave him the most gentle smile, his eyes shutting as he muttered in words that Boris could barely hear, "I'm w-with . . . you, Boris. That's . . . s-safe . . ." Hank's words drifted off.

Boris found himself staring at a now-silent Hank, genuinely shocked. He almost stopped right where he was standing. No one had ever associated him with safety; no one had ever felt safe simply because he was near. The thought warmed his heart, despite the dangerous conditions they currently faced. Perhaps Hank was beginning to love him, too, though the doctor might not yet realize it.

The thought gave him hope and made him literally grin.

Naturally, his grin was quickly wiped right from his face.

"Everyone, down!" Johnson suddenly shouted, pushing at Boris' back as he, too, dropped to the ground. Without question, Boris fell to his side, clasping Hank to his chest and trying to protect his doctor's barely conscious figure. Bullets passed overhead, plinking into the soil a foot to Boris' right. He swallowed hard—very hard. That had been far too close for the German's comfort. Johnson returned the fire, eyes determined, cold.

Quickly, Lever popped his head up, frantically looking around him. Boris inappropriately found himself thinking the man looked like a demented groundhog looking to see if it was safe to emerge from its burrow. With a quick shake of his head, Boris met his eyes, following his gaze. It seemed clear, at least for the time being. As one, they all rose, Boris clasping Hank to him and again sprinting for the Mercedes, Johnson now running at their sides with Evan and Miller right beside him. Lever came running up from Boris' left, panting, face pale, eyes glowing.

The Mercedes shrieked to a stop in front of them. Boris simply continued to run, watching as Swanson leaned over to push the passenger door open. Miller opened the back door, and Johnson and Lever clambered into the back row of seats. Boris then carefully climbed inside, followed by an anxious Evan. As soon as Miller was in the front passenger seat, they screeched out of the area and onto the dirt road, dust billowing behind them. While Boris knew that they would pick up his Porsche Panamera on the way out—if he were to guess, he would imagine that Miller would be driving it—the baron truly did not care. His only concern was addressing Hank's deteriorating health.

With that in mind, Boris placed Hank in his lap, gently touching his cheek but finding the good doctor had, indeed, passed out. He was still wheezing, and Boris could tell that his fever had climbed. Perhaps this time Hank would stay in bed until he was completely healed . . . wait, what was he thinking? Shaking his head, Boris immediately discounted such an idea. He was obviously exhausted if he was even entertaining such a ludicrous notion. Hank would never take care of himself unless he was forced to, which Boris was more than prepared to do.

The idea of chaining Hank to bed once more tantalized him, and he smiled.

Inhaling deeply, Boris eased Hank against his chest, carefully circling his arms around his love. He gently brushed Hank's hair out of his eyes, pulling the Armani jacket around him tighter to keep him warm. Hank's breathing seemed to ease the higher he lifted him, so he placed the younger man's head on his shoulder. For a moment, he just watched his love, content in holding him.

However, even with his focus on his love, Boris could feel Evan staring at him. Evan sat beside him, his eyes questioning. Boris knew without question that they would soon be having a very lengthy discussion.

Evan continued to stare at Boris. After a moment, something like comprehension dawned on his face. His narrowed eyes focused on Hank before looking at Boris in something between accusation and warning. Boris knew they would soon be having a very long conversation, one that he most certainly was not looking forward to. Evan Lawson might be annoying, childish, immature, rash, and a hundred more annoying adjectives, but he was definitely one thing: he was as protective of his older brother as Hank was of him. And while Hank could be a bit naïve in some ways, Evan had rarely struck Boris as such; the only exception had been with his father. Without doubt, he would spot Boris' strategic planning for what it was, his attempt to permanently draw Hank into his sphere of influence and into his life.

He would understand that Boris wanted Hank, but Boris would have to make sure that Evan also understood how much he loved Hank, truly and deeply loved the good doctor who had warmed his soul from the first day they met.

Then again, that trip to Cuba was sounding increasingly promising.

* * *

_And that's a wrap, folks, for this part (Plan D). There will be one more part after this—one with a few chapters—and in that, the boys will finally admit their feelings and have some fun! Of course, there will be angst, and Evan will be knocking at Boris' office door for that "talk."_

_Next chapter: _Hank and Boris spend some un-interrupted time together: no bullets, grenades, enemy minions. Boris professes his love to Hank. What ever _will_ Hank do?

_Thanks for all of the wonderful reviews! _They're wonderfully inspirational, especially when Ye Olde Writer's Block is trying to step back in. And DelightfullyDeranged, I'm chuckling at your comment because the chapter after next should make you grin!


	12. Plan E: Win the War

_Summary: _Intrigued by his new concierge doctor, Boris schemes on how to more fully integrate Hank into both the Hamptons and Boris' own life. One plan after the next leads to mixed failure and success. Poor Boris!

_A/N:_ Chapter Twelves begins the final part of the series. It's a bit shorter, but the next one should be longer. We're getting closer and closer, folks! :-)

**Chapter Twelve**

**Part E:**

**Win the War**

Quietly, Boris entered Hank's room, peeking inside. The well-curtained room was still fairly dark, despite the bright sunshine outside. An air humidifier softly ran in the background, and Boris quickly checked to make sure that it was still full. He glanced into the medicine dispenser and was pleased to see that it was only partially empty, but he would need to add some within the next few hours. After a moment's silent contemplation, he decided to add the liquid now; he could already feel the draining exhaustion from the day's activities catching up to him at last. With any luck, he would not be awake in a few hours.

Tiredly, he ran his hand over his eyes before looking at his love. Right now, Hank was propped up on several pillows and heavily dosed with codeine. The blankets were tightly wrapped around his slim body, and he could tell that Hank was still running a fairly nasty fever. The wheeze was back, too, as were the almost uncontrollable coughing fits; at least the codeine seemed to help the coughing. His love was shivering even in his sleep, and his skin had an unhealthy sheen to it, with a deep flush to the cheeks. Hank's fever had been just slightly under 103° when they returned from West Milford, and there was no doubt that his cold had worsened. He was not as ill as he had been a week or so ago, but he was definitely losing valuable recovery ground.

At least Hank was now home and resting. As far as Boris could tell, he had been sleeping without disturbance for the past four hours.

He sighed, carefully shutting the door behind him so that no light would disturb his love's rest. Boris then quietly returned to Hank's side, feeling his forehead with a frown and climbing onto the bed to sit beside him. His hands gently carded the younger man's curly hair while his eyes drooped slightly closed. For the first time in probably thirty hours, Boris allowed himself to relax as he recalled the day's events.

After they managed to make it to the Mercedes, they had speedily left the area, only stopping to pick up the Porsche. Boris had held Hank the entire way to the estate, and the doctor had only stirred a few times, never seeming to completely regain consciousness. He had been sorely tempted to take the man to a hospital, but Evan had thought it best to let him simply rest.

Normally, Boris did not listen to Evan—in fact, he actively avoided listening to the younger brother—but this time he thought the man might have a point. After the turmoil of the past day, Hank needed complete rest and peace. A hospital was about the least likely place to find that, especially (and he shuddered at the idea) Hamptons Heritage. A trip to New York would take too long, though the hospital facilities would undoubtedly be better. Even flying Hank into New York would take its time, and Hank truly needed to sleep more than he needed nurses poking and prodding him.

Once more, thus, he had forced himself to rely on the services of Doctor Jill Casey. She had confirmed his thoughts about keeping Hank at Shadow Pond after giving him a lecture on pneumonia and the need for complete bed rest. To avoid strangling the annoying woman, Boris had firmly gripped his hands behind his back. Granted, Casey had not known of Evan's kidnapping, but she should have known that Boris would only allow Hank to jeopardize his health in this fashion for exceedingly good reasons.

The harpy drove him insane. He had been glad for her help—but he had been even more grateful to see her walk out the door.

Naturally, he was still waiting for the explosion that was likely to strike when Evan came to talk to him. The German sighed, wondering how his life had suddenly become so complicated. At one time, his life had been quiet, even peaceful. His servants had always been unobtrusive when in his presence, knowing that he not only expected such behavior but also demanded it. His privacy had rarely been interrupted, and the halls of his estate had been filled with an almost reverent hush.

He smiled slightly, turning to look at the younger man beside him. And then, of course, his doctor had crashed into his life, upturning everything. The silence, the privacy, the appealing idea that most of his planned activities for the day would go as expected . . . with Hank on the scene, all of his expectations had shattered. He never knew what would happen on any given day, not with his love involved. There could be a crisis. His love might be angry with him for some unknown reason. Even Evan might hurtle into his estate, disturbing the peace and quiet with his usual brashness—and probably breaking something along the way.

Shaking his head, Boris found his smile growing. Despite the chaos that typically seemed to follow his love, Boris would not change it for anything. It almost felt like Hank had given him his life back.

Hank abruptly stirred beside him, and Boris looked down. He found himself looking into the slightly dazed and glazed hazel eyes of his doctor. Even in the room's darkness, he could see that Hank was a bit lost.

"Easy, Hank," he said softly, smiling. He placed an arm around Hank's shoulders and carefully squeezed. The room was silent as he waited for Hank to gain his bearings. When his love's flushed face looked back up at him, Boris asked, "How are you feeling?"

Hank thought for a moment. Boris was somewhat concerned that it took Hank a good minute to answer his question. "Uh—okay, I guess," he replied hoarsely, blinking. Hank's eyes darted around the room, still seeming rather disoriented. "We're back, right?"

Boris quickly nodded. "Yes. We got back several hours ago." He paused before adding, "Evan is well. He was here about an hour ago." What Boris did not mention was that he sent the younger brother away after the man had paced up and down the room until the German was ready to sedate him. He was unsure exactly why the man had been so restless, but he imagined being kidnapped had something to do with it. His concern over his older brother's health had also impacted his ability to stand still, not that Evan stood still at the best of times. All he knew was that he did not want Evan's pacing to disturb Hank's much-needed rest.

Hank looked at him for a moment, apparently trying to get a clearer view of Boris. After a moment, he sighed. "I need to see him. He's probably messed up from what happened."

The daft man even started moving his blankets aside to stand up. Boris simply put the blankets right back where they belonged and drew Hank back down. "Later, Doctor." He glared at the stubborn man. "You have endangered your health enough for one day. Evan will manage until tomorrow." Or the week after, if Boris had his way.

Glaring, Hank mumbled something that Boris simply could not understand. However, he did stay in bed, which Boris took as a very solid win.

For awhile, the room was silent. Hank relaxed against him, and for some reason, Boris felt no awkwardness. Instead, he almost felt his spirit was easing, resting beside that of his love. The silence was true solace. He simply continued to stroke Hank's hair back, only pausing to brush a stray lock of hair off of the doctor's forehead.

"Thanks for helping, Boris. I mean it," Hank suddenly said, his voice breaking the blanket of silence that had fallen over them. The good doctor seemed to think for a minute, his forehead scrunched in concern. He even rolled over to his side, his cheek and chin resting on Boris' side so he could more easily look at the baron. "I . . . I don't think Ev would be alive without you." There was a long, hesitant pause before Hank added, "And I . . . I probably wouldn't be alive, either."

Boris gave the doctor's shoulders a tight squeeze, ducking his head against Hank's. He brushed his lips against Hank's forehead. "You are more than welcome, Hank." Closing his eyes, Boris allowed himself to feel his love in his arms, pressed up against him. His smile widened when Hank curled into him even more, one of his legs brushing against Boris'.

However, the baron's words were unusually unsure when Boris asked, "I . . . you know I . . . care for you, yes, Hank?"

Hank's head nodded softly against his side.

They were once more silent.

After a pause, Hank tentatively suggested, "As a . . . friend?" Hank waited for a long moment, then tacked on softly, almost cautiously, "Boris?"

At this, Boris inhaled sharply. He blinked. While he considered his response, he gently rubbed Hank's back, feeling the suddenly taut muscles ease against his caress. He could have sworn he heard the same _tick tick tick_ that haunted him in West Milford. Hank waited patiently while the billionaire considered his reply; however, while Hank was patient, Boris could feel the younger man's pulse quickening.

Finally, Boris whispered, "Not exactly, love." Carefully, he tilted Hank's chin up until the good doctor was looking at him, his brow furrowed. Boris could feel the blood rushing in Hank's body, feel him shudder slightly. The German's lips were gentle, tender when he leaned down to brush his lips against Hank's. "I am your friend, yes, and I always will be. I will always be here for you, no matter what."

He paused, once more kissing Hank, but this time nibbling on his lower lip. For so long, he had wanted to nibble on that lip—every time Hank bit into it had been a painful tease, whether the doctor realized it or not.

Hank made an odd keening noise deep in the back of his throat. It was not precisely pained or unhappy. Boris suspected it was more the sound of someone overcome by sudden and very sharp emotions. He gently ran his hand over Hank's back, his touch assuring the doctor that he was here for him, that he wanted him.

Abruptly, Hank lifted himself on shaky arms until he was capturing Boris' lips with his own teeth, carefully running his own hand through the German's hair. After a moment, he opened his lips for Boris' surprised but delighted invasion, urgently running his free hand down Boris' ribs. Their kiss deepened, and the young man's tongue flicked against his teeth, against the roof of his mouth. Boris moaned into the kiss, holding his doctor and meeting his passion with everything in him. Eventually, though, the German could feel his love gasping against his lips, a cough slowly working its way through his lungs.

Hank broke away to breathe. He coughed softly and stared at Boris with intense eyes that refused to look away. If the light had been clearer, Boris was almost sure that the doctor's eyes would have been dark, the pupils dilated.

As Hank continued to stare at him, his chest heaving against his human pillow, Boris kissed the tip of the doctor's nose. Boris smiled, waiting for the slight panting to ease. "I am your friend, Hank, and that will never change." He kissed Hank's lips again, being sure to keep the kiss almost chaste, given Hank's difficulty breathing. The nerves in his stomach quivered, but he forced them into submission before continuing, "But I am deeply, utterly, and irrevocably in love with you, my love."

Hank's hazel eyes flashed shock at him.

Seeing that look, Boris leaned down and tenderly kissed Hank's neck, his lips fluttering against the soft skin. Carefully, he rolled them over, pressing Hank back against the pillows and placing all of his weight on his own arms. He leaned over his love's wide-eyed form, bending down to once more capture those lovely lips with his own.

When Hank started to gasp for air—his lungs still very short for breath—Boris moved his lips back to the doctor's slender neck. He tasted the flesh, running his lips over the white splendor, then his tongue. Hank arched into his mouth, coughing softly but urging Boris on with a deep moan when the German looked at him in concern.

Hank squirmed underneath him, breathing quickly. "Oh, God, Boris," he whispered, swallowing hard. His panting increased as Boris worked from his sensitive neck to the delicate shell of his ear. Boris gently kissed the smooth skin, feeling his love shudder beneath him—indeed, feeling those slender and skillful doctor's fingers work their way up his own spine in a touch that almost immediately went straight to his groin.

When the younger man's eyes fluttered shut, Boris moved from his ear to gently kiss those closed eyelids, lingering on the soft, almost silky lashes. Seconds later found him returning to Hank's ear, which he slowly began to lick, dipping his tongue inside the shell. Hank whimpered, wriggling and quivering quite helplessly; he moved his own hands to Boris' hips, which he began caressing through the older man's slacks. The German then suckled Hank's earlobe, gently bruising its flesh with his kiss, marking the skin with his touch.

Boris pulled back a moment, giving his love time to breathe. He did not want to push too far too fast, for he knew Hank was not currently well enough for much. In fact, judging from Hank's raspy breathing, he was probably bordering "too far" right now.

Quickly, he once more nipped at Hank's lower lip, then he moved his lips up to kiss Hank's cheeks and nose. He was rapidly finding that he loved to kiss Hank's nose as a sign of endearment.

He met Hank's eyes, refusing to let him look away. "You drive me crazy, doctor, and there are times I want to take you over my knee and spank you until you behave." A small smirk played at his lips as he watched Hank blush, the flush even bright enough to be seen in the darkness. He again kissed the tip of the doctor's nose. "And believe me, my love—" he growled, eyes darkening in possessive concern "—we _will_ be discussing your persistent lack of concern for your own wellbeing."

That blush deepened, and Boris now found his lips almost helplessly drawn to kissing the glowing flush. His actions seemed to deepen the flush even more, and he smiled. "But now . . ." He rolled them over once more, placing Hank on top and cushioning his curly head against his chest. "Now, we need to rest."

He very carefully did not say the obvious _you need to rest_, knowing exactly how the ailing doctor would behave. Or misbehave, actually. The thoroughly aggravating man would probably try to convince him he was _just fine_, right before coughing for a good fifteen minutes and passing out.

Hank smiled, rubbing his free hand over Boris' stomach until the older man felt goosebumps springing up. The doctor drew his body up momentarily, meeting Boris' lips. The kiss was short—Boris had been watching, and Hank really was needing to rest—but he sharply enjoyed the passion in the doctor's kiss. That brief kiss kindled the need and desire in every part of his body and soul.

As Hank settled back down, legs tangled with Boris', the German found himself happier than he had ever been. He had finally admitted just how much Hank meant to him, and his love had not run as quickly away from him as he could. (Naturally, if Hank tried to run right now, he probably would make it about two steps before falling flat on his face, but the thought was still the same.) Hank had not tried to push him away. His strategic planning seemed to be working quite well. Though it had definitely taken longer than he had originally expected, his love was well worth the wait: every minute of it.

He simply hoped that life calmed down enough over the next week to give Hank time to heal and Boris enough time to show his doctor just how much he loved him. A week without scheming fathers or kidnapped brothers would certainly _not _go amiss.

Boris smiled as he watched Hank slide into a peaceful sleep, his body completely relaxed against Boris. His love obviously felt safe in his presence and, even more, in his arms. Sleep was one of the most vulnerable states a person could be in, yet Hank completely trusted him enough to feel protected, watched over in his sleep when Boris was near. The thought warmed his heart, just as Hank's earlier words, spoken when they were barely outpacing their enemy, did: his admission that he felt safe with Boris.

Only one thing more would make this day perfect, but Boris was not overly concerned. While the baron realized that Hank had not expressed his own love, he suspected that such an admission was not long in coming. His lovely doctor needed the time to come to terms with the change in their relationship, especially given his illness.

Boris kissed the top of Hank's head, thinking. The baron needed a Plan E. He would move slowly, carefully, but he was certain his doctor loved him. Until the younger man was comfortable admitting it, he would work at eroding the good doctor's insecurities. Eventually, Hank would come to recognize that he loved Boris just as much as Boris loved him.

Protectively, he pulled Hank to him once more, slowly closing his own eyes as he felt his love's soft breaths against his own.

* * *

_Next chapter: _Hank misbehaves (like anyone is surprised). Boris and Evan scold the good doctor. An annoyed Boris decides some discipline is in order. And, finally, Hank uses the word "love."

_Thanks for all of the terrific reviews! _DelightfullyDeranged, I'm glad you liked the shoot out. This was the first one I've written—at least, I think so. It was a bit different writing! Thanks Priestess of Silvanus and HidingFromYou! And Hermajexsty1987, I completely understand! :-)


	13. Plan E: Scold Your Doctor

_Summary: _Intrigued by his new concierge doctor, Boris schemes on how to more fully integrate Hank into both the Hamptons and Boris' own life. One plan after the next leads to mixed failure and success. Poor Boris!

_A/N:_ Chapter Thirteen continues the final part of the series. We're getting closer and closer, folks! Two more chapters to go, unless I divide the last one (it's a _long_ one).

**Warning: Adult discipline/spanking here. If you don't want to read that, I've marked off the section in bold. You can simply skip it.**

**Chapter Thirteen**

**Part E:**

**Scold Your Doctor**

"What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?" a loud voice shouted, echoing down the stately hall and causing Boris to stop in his tracks. He was two rooms away from Hank's bedroom, steadily walking towards it after having spent most of his day, unfortunately, away from Hank's side. While he was officially retired, he still needed to handle some of the more difficult situations that arose, and the near loss of almost a million dollars had been such a situation. Thankfully, he had been able to trace the million dollars to a mishandled transaction and, after soundly lecturing his manager on the benefits of establishing thorough paper trails, he had finished the day's business with a glass of sherry and something close to elation.

_Only five more minutes, and I will see Hank_ had been running through his mind for the past two hours. Finally, though, it looked like that _five minutes_ was really going to become five minutes, and he was happy to see Hank's bedroom door.

Until he heard the grating voice even now shouting almost loudly enough to be heard down the staircase.

Quickly, he opened the door. He was frowning darkly when he looked to see who was shouting in his house—most especially at his doctor.

Quite naturally, it was Evan Lawson.

However, he completely understood the accountant's ire when he saw his beloved doctor. Apparently, his unreasonable love—whose face, he might add, was still flushed with fever and who was still coughing harshly—was trying to get dressed. The tennis shoes and jeans clearly showed this, especially when combined with the button-up shirt Hank was already haphazardly wearing. By _haphazardly _he meant that Hank had apparently not noticed that his shirt was buttoned incorrectly, at least the part of the shirt that _had _been buttoned. More than half of the shirt was still gaping wide open. Boris' eyebrows were rising even higher when he saw the iPhone sitting innocuously on Hank's bed, not to mention the laptop and—was that really a portable printer?

There was only one thing that Boris could think as he considered the evidence: Henry Lawson was in trouble unlike anything he had ever been in.

Evan did not even bother looking at Boris as the German entered the room. Instead, he kept his furious green eyes pointed on his stubborn brother. "You're not going anywhere, Hank!" Evan snapped, grabbing the shoes right from Hank's grasp and throwing them to the other side of the room. He was reaching for the laptop with equal aggravation when Hank quickly picked it up and protectively held it to his chest. "You're sick, Hank. You know, coughing and sputtering like half of your lung's gonna come up. You. Need. To. Lie. Down. Or I swear I'll _sick_ _Boris on you!"_

Standing there, still unnoticed, Boris found his eyebrows rising towards his hairline at Evan's words. He did not believe he had ever been used as a threat in quite this . . . unusual way.

At his brother's words, Hank's eyes widened, but then he glowered at his sibling. He picked up his iPhone just as Evan lunged for it. Boris was simply amazed the doctor had been able to move that fast without falling flat on his face. It must have been luck.

"No you won't. Boris isn't some . . . some attack dog!" he retorted. The effect of his reprimand, however, was entirely undermined by the hacking cough that escaped his lips as he tried to speak. While the baron could easily see that Hank was, indeed, getting better, he was still ill. He was not on his deathbed, but he certainly was not ready to venture outside, either.

Boris was beyond amazed that neither brother had realized he was in the room, particularly considering that he was the subject of their discussion. With a slight smirk, he leaned against the doorframe, crossed his arms, and quite unashamedly eavesdropped.

"Close enough. The man knows how to keep even _you _in line!" Evan retorted, shaking his head. He pointed one finger at his ill brother. "You better believe he'd _tan_ _your hide_ if he saw you actin' like such an idiot."

Well, yes, this was quite true, he supposed—and he planned to, at least once he convinced Evan to leave the room. Boris made a point of quirking his eyebrows, but, again, both brothers seemed completely blind to his presence.

However, at least this was entertaining. Who needed television when one had the Lawson brothers to provide comic relief?

Evan grabbed his overly pallid brother and shoved him to the bed. "See, bro, it's like this," he began to explain, prying the iPhone from his hand. The laptop seemed to take more time for him to remove from Hank's almost frantic grip. Boris was uncertain if Evan was usually stronger than his brother, but right now he was, and that strength was probably the only thing separating the doctor from his computer. "Look, _Henrietta, _you're gonna behave and rest, or I'm telling Boris. You _know_ he'll come in here, all dark-eyed and ready to haul your ass off to some cave somewhere."

Hank's cheeks flushed even darker, and he looked away—after placing a hand over his eyes in embarrassment. For his part, Boris was hard pressed not to laugh. If only he had such a cave . . . Anyhow, while he'd had little chance to speak with Evan about his interest in Hank, Evan's last comment made him believe that Evan might not entirely oppose such a relationship.

"Okay, okay, I give in, Ev!" a thoroughly discomfited Hank finally yielded, shaking his head. Even though he was coughing and self-conscious as hell, Boris could see he was chuckling at Evan's words. "Geeze . . ."

Boris smiled, thinking this the ideal time to announce his presence. "Apparently, you do not need to tell me anything, Mr. Lawson, for I already know that a certain doctor is being obstinate," the German told them, speaking into the sudden silence.

Both Lawsons turned sharply to the door, though he did notice that Evan looked like he was trying not to laugh while Hank quite frankly looked mortified.

His dark gaze fell on his sputtering doctor, and Boris' eyebrows arched. "I believe a cave was mentioned, Doctor?"

He thought he heard Hank mutter, "God, I'm going to kill you, Evan," before he tried looking at Boris with a completely innocent expression. Boris watched as the doctor nudged a pair of socks out of sight and seemed desperate to hide the faded jeans beneath a pillow. "Hi, Boris . . . how are you today?" he at last asked, eyebrows scrunched together once he had hidden the most conspicuous evidence of his escape attempt.

Rolling his eyes, Boris shook his head. He steadily walked to the bed, pulled the jeans out from under the pillow, and glared at his love. "I was fine until I walked up here to find you trying to get dressed when you are clearly not well, Doctor." He pointed at the laptop and iPhone. "Your brother is right: you need to rest."

Boris wondered if this was the first time he had ever openly admitted that Evan was right about anything. The statement truly left a sour taste in his mouth.

Oh, dear Lord, the situation was even worse than he had imagined. He suddenly realized that this was the _second _time he had agreed with the idiot. The first time had been when he decided not to take Hank to the hospital.

What was his world coming to when he agreed with Evan _twice _in one week?

Hank looked about to argue, but Evan interrupted. "Look, Hank, it's not forever. You just need to get better." At Hank's morose look, he added brightly, "Divya emailed me, and she said she'd be in town today, tomorrow at the latest. You see, everything'll work out just fine."

In answer, Hank sunk against the pillows with a groan, running a hand through his hair. He scowled at his brother. "Fine, you win, Evan!" He glared at both Evan and Boris. "I'll stay put for a bit longer, but I'm telling you, I feel _fine!"_

Both Boris and Evan crossed their arms and stared at Doctor Denial when Hank ended up coughing at the end of his statement of complete health. Boris quirked his eyebrows while Evan rolled his eyes. Doctor Denial was still coughing when Boris handed him the glass of water on his nightstand, his eyes daring Hank to refuse the water. Almost meekly, Hank took the glass, looking away from both of his visitors.

"Yes, it is obvious that you are feeling quite well, Doctor," Boris agreed snidely, loading all of his available sarcasm—and that was really quite a lot—into the statement. He looked at Evan, subtly nudging his head to the door. "If I might, Mr. Lawson . . ." he suggested softly.

Evan stared at him before shrugging. "Yeah, sure," Evan said with a sigh. He glared at his brother one more time for good measure. "I'll see you later, Hank. _Don't_ do anything stupid . . . err, _stupider_." He left, shaking his head.

For a moment, Boris stared at Hank, looking him over more carefully. His love was looking much better than the previous day, and he seemed to be healing faster than he had expected, given how ill he had been just 24 hours ago. The fever was still there, as evidenced by the flush in Hank's cheeks, and his doctor was still coughing more than the German would like, but that was probably to be expected. Hank was still ridiculously pale, though, and his arms shook slightly when he tried to lift them too long. Thus, he was on the mend, but he was far from recuperated.

He had loved the quiet the day before, when Hank had rested peacefully in his arms, but Hank was in for a brutal lecture today. The man simply did not know when to quit.

Instead of sitting beside his love on the bed, Boris pulled the bedside chair closer to Hank and sat. He stared ominously at his Hank for a good four minutes, during which time the doctor fidgeted.

Finally, after Hank was looking as uncomfortable as he had seen him, Boris asked, "Hank, you realize that you are my friend, correct?"

Quietly, Hank pulled the pillows to the headboard and rested against them. He cleared his throat before softly replying, "Yes, Boris. You are my friend, too."

They were both silent.

"And, Hank," Boris continued, "you realize that I love you very much. Yes?"

Hank met his eyes a bit nervously, but he nodded. After another clearing of his throat, Hank managed a bit jerkily, "Y-yes. You told me. Umm, last night." As if to prove his anxiety, Hank quickly tacked on, "Boris."

Nodding, Boris watched his love. He frowned darkly at the younger man, placing his elbows on the chair's armrests and steepling his fingers. The moments ticked by as he stared at Hank.

"So, Doctor, when I say that I am resoundingly disappointed with you, you will understand that it is because I love you deeply and would never wish to see you harmed—am I right, Doctor?" he questioned at last, refusing to look away from his love. He kept his face expressionless except for his left eyebrow, which he lifted slightly.

At this, Hank simply stared at him with wide eyes. He swallowed hard.

Since meeting Hank, Boris had known that his feisty young doctor had a problem with authority. Boris believed it came from his childhood, for who _could _Hank look up to when he was growing up, especially after his mother died and he was in foster care? He suspected Hank had grown up quickly because of his mother's death and his father's abandonment. Unfortunately, that background made him mistrustful of authority figures. Indeed, it almost made it impossible for him to look for help from anyone but himself or Evan. Boris was uncertain whether Hank did not think that help would come or whether he simply did not trust people when they did try to help, but whatever the case, he seemed to think he was alone, that he could not rely on anyone but himself. It had also left him outright suspicious of those in authority.

This problem with authority probably had a good deal to do with Hank's refusal to accept payment for saving someone's life or to back down to Boris' demands on that first evening they met. He had seen this same problem with authority emerge several times in their relationship since then, but now, he was not going to allow it to derail an important lesson his love needed to learn. Hank very much needed to understand that, sometimes, others knew better how to handle a given situation than Hank did—and that he was not without people who could and would help him. And he needed to learn that lesson quickly to keep him from getting killed the next time something invariably exploded in his face, for Hank was a walking disaster waiting to happen if Boris had ever seen one.

That problem with authority was going to make Hank absolutely furious with what Boris was about to do, but the German believed it necessary.

A fine trace of sweat was beginning to shimmer on Hank's forehead, and Boris allowed himself to continue when he saw this. Hank was obviously impacted by his words, the doctor becoming increasingly anxious the longer Boris sat silently watching him.

"I understand why you were upset with me when I brought the security team in, Hank, but I would greatly appreciate it in the future if you would listen to me when I state that I know what I am doing." He paused, meeting Hank's eyes challengingly. "If it were a medical issue, you would have yelled at me for interfering, and rightfully so. You are the authority there. However—" at this point, Boris allowed his voice to lift slightly "—in some things, _I _am the authority. I have a group of Mossad agents. I have dealt with kidnappings before, several of them. If we had done what you suggested, Hank, Evan would probably be dead right now. You would be, too."

Hank flinched at this, biting his lip slightly. He shuddered a bit right before arguing, "But, Boris—"

Boris cut him off, glaring. He pointed a finger at his love. "You will listen to me, and you will listen without comment, Henry Lawson!" Hank actually winced at the use of his full name. His cheeks reddened in anger, and Boris saw those green eyes of his flash furiously, but Hank kept silent.

The German inhaled sharply, his own eyes beginning to simmer. He continued: "You were—_are_—very ill, and the sensible thing to do would have been to stay here while we took care of retrieving your brother. At the very least, you could have stayed with Swanson in the Mercedes. But _no_, you had to be there when we retrieved your brother. You had to be right there when people were shooting, right there when my men needed to focus on _their job_, not watching to make sure you were safe."

When Hank's whitened cheeks showed him how much he understood Boris' point, Boris snapped, "You could have gotten them killed. You could have gotten me or Evan killed. Even more, Hank, you could have gotten _yourself _killed. This to me is inexcusable!"

Boris abruptly stood, beginning to pace across the room. Sitting slightly slouched over on the bed, Hank watched him pace. For a moment, he opened his mouth to speak, but Boris shot one incensed look his way. That look completely silenced the doctor.

At this point, Boris could feel his own pulse thundering in his veins. He could feel the constricting muscles around his heart, the tightening jaw that he had also felt almost the entire time they were trying to rescue Evan. He glared at Hank. "And _then_ you rushed into a room full of people with _guns_, grabbing mine and—do you even know how to _shoot a gun_, Hank? _Do you?"_ he all but roared, a growl in his voice. Hank was the most non-violent person he knew, and from what he had seen that day, the man could not even distinguish between the safety and the slide extractor. How he had managed to fire the weapon without shooting himself in the foot was beyond Boris.

Normally, Boris was soft-spoken, especially in his anger. But this . . . this was something beyond what he could even begin to classify as _normal_. He could not count the number of times Hank had probably been centimeters from a bullet in his brain. The thought panicked him as nothing could. If their luck had not held, if some of their enemies had not waited a millisecond before firing . . . _Hank would be dead._

Boris' tirade continued, his voice getting increasingly louder until it rivaled Evan's earlier shout. "And you were _ill_, Hank. You could barely walk without coughing, you were running a fever, and you were shivering continuously. I had to carry you! Do you know how that made me feel, Hank? _Do you know what was going through my mind as I held you unconscious in my arms?"_

Slowly, Hank shook his head. He swallowed hard, his hazel eyes distraught. At Boris' enraged, pained look, a look Boris did not bother hiding from him, he softly asked, "No, Boris. What—what was—?"

The doctor reached out an overly warm hand and took one of Boris' tightly clenched fists. Boris all but growled at him, but Hank continued to squeeze his hand. The German took some comfort in the touch, especially as the next words shook him to his core. "I wondered if one of the bullets meant for me would hit you instead. I wondered, _Hank_," he paused, becoming increasingly livid, "if I would succeed in rescuing your idiot brother only to lose _you_, the one I love."

He pulled away from the doctor's grip, once more pacing. For a moment, he stared outside, trying to remember that his love was safe, that he was with him securely ensconced in his estate, not somewhere out in West Milford running from a barrage of bullets and deadly debris. He could hear Hank make a soft sound behind him, as if the man were about to speak, but the good doctor wisely remained silent.

After a second, he rounded on Hank. "And _then_ we get back only for me to find you trying to get out of bed when you are still running a fever and still coughing like you are?" The few steps between him and Hank took very little time for him to cross. He glared at his love. "What do I do, Hank, to make you realize that I love you, that your loss would destroy me? That I cannot stand seeing you ill like this, suffering when I cannot help you?"

Hank ran a trembling hand through his hair, his eyes shimmering. He looked at Boris pleadingly. "I'm sorry, Boris . . . I guess, I just didn't . . . _don't_ . . . think that . . ."

Boris exhaled sharply, waving his hand at him in a halting gesture. Hank immediately stopped speaking. Without another word, Boris stormed to the door, slamming it shut and then turning back to his love. Making sure that the younger man noticed, he locked the door with a quick _snick_. Hank was watching him with concerned—and possibly a bit frightened—eyes, the gaze wide against his pale skin.

With an almost predatory slink, Boris walked back to the bed. He carefully eased his love from the blankets and to his feet before sitting at the edge of the bed, with Hank standing in front of him. Hank looked at him nervously, obviously wondering what Boris was doing and why.

"That is just the problem, is it not, Hank?" he asked softly, his anger easing considerably. He gently reached for his love's hands, squeezing them in his own. With the same gentle hands, Boris drew the younger man to his side, meeting his eyes the entire time. "You do not think of yourself at all. You have no sense of self-preservation." He rubbed hands up and down Hank's slender arms, watching as his doctor once more bit into his lower lip. The baron pulled a stray lock away from Hank's forehead, tenderly rubbing his temple. "But I love you, and you need to understand that you are everything to me."

Hank gasped at this, licking his lips slightly. He rubbed a hand at Boris' shoulders, trying to ease the tension there. Boris smiled briefly before sighing heavily.

"You have passion, Doctor, and I love that in you." He gently kissed Hank's cheek, then his wrist, where his pulse pounded within. Boris nipped the warm flesh, smiling slightly. "You are the passion that answers my own, and I would never change that."

**[If you are uncomfortable with an adult spanking, this would be the time to stop reading the chapter.]**

He began carefully pulling Hank even closer, this time guiding him to his lap. Hank's eyes were questioning when he looked at Boris, but those eyes also spoke of trust: of deep trust, a trust that Boris would never betray. What he was about to do might be hard for Hank to understand, especially given his upbringing with no authority figures, but Boris treasured his love. He could not risk his Hank's life by failing to show the man just how much his behavior had hurt him.

"Hank, do you trust me?" he asked softly, though he knew that his doctor did trust him. He just needed Hank to state it, too. As he waited for his beloved's answer, Boris rubbed up and down Hank's arms, feeling the limbs shake slightly. He knew they needed to get this finished quickly, for Hank's body was already strained.

After a second's silence, Hank nodded. "Yes, Boris, I trust you." He looked away for a moment before sighing. "Sometimes, you make me want to strangle you—" Boris smiled faintly at this, especially as it echoed exactly his own feelings towards Hank "—but I trust you with my life. With Evan's life, too, actually."

Boris nodded. He tugged lightly at Hank's sharp hips. "Then I need you to lie across my lap. No—" he placed one finger over the doctor's lips as Hank started to protest, the younger man's eyes wide and a bit alarmed "—if you trust me, take my word that this will be for your good. You may not like it, but you need it."

At this, Hank swallowed hard. He coughed, cleared his throat, cleared his throat again, then—looking at Boris for at least a minute, maybe two, seeming to be looking for something in the baron's eyes—he slowly climbed onto the bed and placed his body over Boris' lap. Boris could feel the tiny tremors working through Hank's entire figure, and he was especially gentle as he guided his precious doctor into position. Hank was hooked over his lap, his stomach down and his face red from what Boris took to be intense embarrassment. Boris dragged the pillows over and placed them under Hank's head, wanting to make his breathing as easy as possible.

Though Hank had probably never experienced this before, he obviously had a good idea what was coming.

Hank was still wearing pajamas, and Boris carefully pushed the pajamas and underwear down until the doctor's behind was bare. He forced himself not to notice how shapely his bottom was, how perfectly smooth and creamy; instead, he heavily placed his right hand against Hank's exposed buttocks and looked at Hank's face.

Making sure to keep his voice steady, Boris quietly told his love, "This is for refusing to acknowledge that I have more experience in dealing with serious situations like kidnappings than you have, for failing to acknowledge that I have a fully trained Mossad team that could fully handle the situation."

Lifting his hand a good foot, he brought it down sharply on Hank's behind twice, watching as Hank jerked against him. He heard a slight hiss and a cough, but his doctor was breathing well and seemed to have suffered nothing but a sting and a slight injury to his pride. Boris nodded at this. The goal in this was not to truly hurt Hank—never—but to teach him that he had been absurdly, preposterously _wrong_.

His hand gently rested against Hank's now-reddened buttocks once more. Hank jolted at his touch, only settling down after Boris carefully rubbed his lower back. "This," he began, his voice a bit louder, "is for refusing to stay home when you were incredibly ill. You risked your own health and that of our team because you were so ill. Your health is important, Hank Lawson, and you need to remember that in the future."

Again, he paddled Hank, giving him three solid _thwacks_ before stopping. Hank gasped on the third strike, and the gasp turned into an all-out cough. Boris gently rubbed his love's back, making sure that the spasm finished before asking softly, "Are you all right, Doctor?"

After a moment, Hank nodded, his face red with what looked to be tears pricking his eyes. Boris did not think most of the redness came from the coughing fit; it probably came from embarrassment. However, he waited several moments to make sure this was the case, watching Hank cautiously breathe until he seemed a bit more relaxed.

When he placed his hand back on Hank's rear, he felt the doctor's muscles tense once more, but he understood the reaction. It was to be expected. Boris' next words were not quite as gentle as his previous. In fact, they intensified the longer he spoke: "This is for charging into a fully-armed room with a gun you do not know how to use. This is for repeatedly putting yourself at risk." He cleared his throat, reminding himself that he needed to discipline his love, not yell at him uselessly. "This is for recklessly endangering your life, the life of the man I love with everything inside me."

With each sentence, he swatted Hank, adding a fourth strike by the time he was done. By the time he was half way through, Hank had yelped in pain; by the final swat, there were tears draining down his cheeks. Boris was uncertain if the tears were for the pain or for Boris' angry words. He suspected it could be both. Normally, he would have delivered more punishment, especially given Hank's recent behavior, but he knew Hank was in no condition to receive more. The fever alone probably made the spankings feel twice as harsh since his skin would be overly sensitive. Given his doctor's stubborn and volatile personality, he also doubted that Hank would normally cry over something like this, but that fever was likely messing with his emotions.

As Hank started calming down, his body shaking steadily, Boris carefully caressed the tender flesh he had just spanked. It felt hot to the touch and was blisteringly red. A knot seemed lodged in his chest when he gently whispered, "Please, love, never do that again. Never endanger your life again. I could not bear that, to see you hurt."

Hank's words were gasped out, but Boris clearly heard them. "Sorry, 'oris . . . I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you this way."

At this, Boris carefully replaced the pajamas and underwear, at the same time lifting his love. He pulled him close to his chest, only stopping himself from crushing the compact figure against his own when he remembered that Hank was still ill. Tears ran down Hank's white cheeks, the eyes sorrowful, maybe a bit dazed from what had happened. Boris' thumb wiped at the tears, his heart aching at the sign of them on his love's face. Hank kissed him, softly whispering, "Sorry, Boris, love . . . so sorry . . ."

Boris took the younger man's mouth and kissed him thoroughly, running his hands over Hanks back and sore buttocks as he did so. Hank moaned into the kiss, pulling back to cough for a moment before plunging his tongue right back into Boris' mouth. Hank's mouth was like silk, and Boris found himself immediately addicted to that mouth, to that slippery tongue dueling with his own. He was secretly relieved to find Hank so passionate and feisty after the spanking, for he had been concerned how the doctor would react to his disciplining. It was the only way he could think of protecting his love from his own insane, self-sacrificing tendencies.

Breaking for air for a moment—especially as Hank was starting to wheeze—Boris pulled away enough to gently edge the younger man under the blankets. Smiling, he wrapped the blankets tightly around his doctor, making sure he kept warm, before once more exploring the mouth that should be declared totally sinful. Their groins rubbed together, and they both moaned softly at the delicious friction. His smile strengthened when Hank once more rested against him, intertwining their legs and arms until Boris could barely move without Hank moving with him.

It was only later, when he was beginning to fall asleep after further kissing and caressing his love, that he realized something: something undeniably critical.

Hank had called him _love_.

* * *

_Next chapter: _Evan discovers that he should probably start knocking before opening some closed doors. Boris stares at Evan when the younger man actually calls him a dick. Hank blushes . . . actually, he blushes _a lot. _

_Thanks for all of the terrific reviews! _I am so glad so many of you enjoyed the last chapter at Boris' statement of love. (Thanks, DelightfullyDeranged, for saying that you melted at it. That's a wonderful compliment!) :-) That was probably one of my favorite scenes! It breaks my heart, too, that there are so few Boris/Hank fics. It's such an intriguing pairing!


	14. Plan E: Give the Man Some Clorox

_Summary: _Intrigued by his new concierge doctor, Boris schemes on how to more fully integrate Hank into both the Hamptons and Boris' own life. One plan after the next leads to mixed failure and success. Poor Boris!

_A/N:_ Chapter Fourteen continues the final part of the series. After this one, there should only be one more chapter—unless I divide it since it's getting so long! (I think it's about 8,000 words right now...which, apparently, this chapter is, too). If anyone has a preference (one long chapter or two shorter ones), just let me know!

I have to say my favorite line in this chapter has to be towards the end when Evan calls Boris a dick. The audacity! Boris was _not _pleased. :-)

**Chapter Fourteen**

**Part E:**

**Give the Man Some Clorox**

**(Or Kill Evan as Painfully as Possible)**

Breathing deeply and feeling much lighter than he had in quite some time, Boris finished his call to Japan and smiled. He had promised his love to stop by around noon. Hank was going somewhat stir crazy, stuck in bed, and the baron had pledged—with a fairly sly smile—to find ways to relieve Hank's restlessness. Now that he truly was recuperating, the young man was becoming increasingly impatient. Boris fully expected a battle of almost epic proportions to begin fairly soon when, fairly inevitably he supposed, Hank decided once again that he had had enough of bed rest and was ready to return to work. Between Boris and Evan, they had managed to keep the good doctor somewhat manageable—though he would certainly never use that word in Hank's presence—but every day seemed to erode that compliance.

Stopping in front of Hank's quiet room, he pushed the door open and looked inside. The lights were on, which was what he had expected, and music lightly filtered through the room. He thought it might have been jazz, but Boris was not positive. The music was not overly loud; a quick glance around the room found the source. It looked like Hank had somehow commandeered his iPhone once more. He had attached it to the speaker jack in the radio alarm clock on his nightstand. Boris was impressed. In all honesty, he had not even realized that the alarm had such an input device.

He would have to thank Dieter at a later date. The clocks had been his purchase.

However, he would like to know how his love had managed to obtain possession of his iPhone again. He was under the impression that Evan had locked it away in the guesthouse. A quick glance around the room showed him that at least Hank had not somehow contrived to get his hands on the laptop, too. Boris was doing everything he possibly could to keep his love from working for at least one week.

The German was rapidly finding such a task to be beyond even him, though, considering Hank's almost outrageous work ethic.

On the positive side, it looked like Hank _was _doing what he was told: relaxing. Instead of the medical journal someone had smuggled to him last night—he suspected poor Divya had been the culprit, especially since he doubted Evan even knew what a medical journal looked like—he found Hank reading what looked to be an unusually long novel. Hank was also lounging quite comfortably on the unmade bed, a blue bathrobe loosely tied over his pajamas. Nowhere did he see any jeans or shirts or, for that matter, anything even remotely wearable outside the bedroom. Dieter had been thorough in his removal of all such clothing.

As he neared his love, he finally got a better look at what his doctor was doing. He could have strangled the man. Stuffed inside Leo Tolstoy's rather hefty _War and Peace_ was a photocopied and stapled stack of pages. Boris quickly walked to Hank's side before the doctor realized he was no longer alone; he wrenched the text right out of Hank's hands. Shocked, Hank looked up at him, his mouth slightly open. A guilty look quickly replaced his shock.

Without a word, Boris looked down at the eight pages of tiny print. It was an article from _The Journal of the American Medical Association_, the article itself entitled "Association Between Timeliness of Reperfusion Therapy and Clinical Outcomes in ST-Elevation Myocardial Infarction." [1] Even the graphics made Boris' eyes cross. Oh, yes, the doctor was _certainly_ resting.

Annoyed, Boris dumped the eight-page article onto the nightstand and folded his arms, glaring down at an increasingly shifty-eyed doctor. Is this what Hank considered 'light reading'?

Well, there were ways to distract his love from his practice.

At this, Boris leered.

Seeing that leer, Hank's eyebrows quickly arched high. The guilty expression he had been doggedly wearing now became something morphing between anxiety and intrigue.

For a moment, he glanced at the room's furniture, eyeing the bedside chair. It would be the safer location to sit, one that was less likely to lead to temptation. Boris considered it for one moment before quickly dismissing it; it was simply too far from Hank's side. Instead, he clambered onto the bed until he was sitting right beside Hank, and he pulled the doctor to him. Hank readily obliged him, almost immediately, even. Boris wrapped his arms around his love's shoulders and tucked Hank's head against his chest, smiling at the content look that instantly spread across Hank's face.

They both sighed, happy to be silent in one another's presence for just a moment.

Hank eventually broke the silence, his hazel eyes looking at Boris with warmth. "Hey, you look good," he spoke softly, smiling. He wove his fingers in between the fingers of Boris' free hand, rubbing his thumb against the German's skin.

Boris was more than pleased to notice that Hank's skin was almost cool. He still had a slight fever, at least Boris thought so, but he was much better than earlier. His love also seemed to be breathing better. There was the occasional cough, but it was just that: occasional. With deep satisfaction, he leaned forward to kiss the tip of Hank's nose.

"I am very . . . pleased right now, Hank," Boris admitted, inhaling before again kissing the tip of the doctor's nose. As he held Hank, he could almost feel much of the day's stress sliding away from him. "You are getting well. The Matini family has been dealt with. Your brother is nowhere in sight." He listened as Hank snorted at his last statement. "I consider myself a very fortunate man, indeed, given these factors."

Closing his eyes in utter relaxation, Hank nodded his head. He made a brief sound of agreement. It did Boris' heart good to see the younger man so fully relaxed, for Hank seemed to find it difficult to relax. He had often wondered if that was a common characteristic among doctors; he supposed that would make sense given the life-or-death nature of the field. On the other hand, it also seemed to be a Lawson problem since he had rarely seen Evan unwind. He simply allowed himself the time to enjoy the temporary peace and quiet.

Boris knew they had things to discuss . . . but, truly, _discuss_ was about the least of the things he wanted to do with his handsome Hank right now.

He cleared his throat, looking down at Hank's upturned face. He could see the dark eyelashes dusting against the younger man's cheeks. There was a bit more color in those cheeks, and he squeezed Hank's shoulders at the encouraging sight. Carefully, he kissed Hank's temples and cheeks, enjoying the feel of his love's soft skin pressing against his own.

However, there was one issue he felt needed to be addressed. He stroked Hank's curly hair back, smiling at the young man's look of pleasure at his touch. Boris continued doing so until Hank was almost purring. "Hank . . ." he finally breathed, looking down. He did not mean for his love's name to sound like a sensuous caress, or even more the verbal foreplay one made before hoping to God there was a condom in the drawer, but as with so many things involving Hank, his wishes had little to do with what actually happened.

Or perhaps his tone was exactly matching his wishes.

Hank opened his eyes and looked up at him. The good doctor met his gaze, eyebrows slightly nudged upwards. His eyelids drooped heavily, lashes concealing the beauty of his irises. Judging by the quickening heartbeat Boris could feel as he stroked his wrist, the whispered sound of his name on Boris' lips struck right to the core of his love's body.

"Y-yes?" Hank finally managed in reply, his voice deep, throaty. That hoarseness, the baron knew, had nothing to do with illness.

Hearing his love's husky voice sent shivers up and down Boris' back. He could remember no time when merely hearing someone's voice had managed to do this to him, and he swallowed hard. Moments ticked by as he simply stared into Hank's hazel eyes.

What had he wanted to talk about, anyway?

Boris had to shake his head to regain any sense of control over his body's desires. He was only comforted by the fact that his doctor apparently was in the same situation, for Hank inhaled deeply, licking his lips.

The intense moment was only broken by Hank's sudden cough. The German was almost grateful for that cough, for it reminded him what he had wanted to talk about before his brains had completely melted into his groin.

"Hank," he whispered, his own voice hoarse, "you have not been entirely doing what I asked." Hank looked at him, dark eyes obviously curious—though Boris had a strong feeling that the doctor was not entirely paying attention to his words. He seemed to be paying a great deal more attention to Boris' mouth.

Lightly, he smacked Hank's shoulder, earning him a glare and a bit more attention than he had previously seen.

"You were supposed to relax. Take it easy. Sleep. Get better."

Just when had he lost the ability to string two sentences together? Here he was, speaking in only slightly connected fragments.

Hank would be the death of him—at the very least, the death of his ability to speak with anything approaching sense.

"Humph," came an equally articulate sound from Hank. It was truly a cross between a moan and a grunt. The doctor's eyes were glazed, and Boris swore he could see the pupil's expanding as he watched. "I was . . . you saw me. Sitting. Reading . . . something."

At this rate, Boris figured they would be lucky to speak any English. He hissed as Hank began to rub at his thigh, the doctor's brow furrowed.

If he wanted to have a real discussion with his doctor, it had better be now. He forced himself to speak seriously. "You were reading—" Boris reached for the article sitting ignored on the nightstand "—from 'Association Between Timeliness of Reperfusion'—"

Hank stared at the article with clearly uninterested eyes. Instead, he now seemed almost obsessively focused on Boris' hands.

"Whatever that is about, Hank," Boris continued even if he knew neither of them was interested in continuing this conversation. It needed to be said. At least he could honestly say he had had this argument on stupid-and-not-overly-helpful-to-recuperation-behaviors with his love before he tackled said love to the bed and kissed the breath right out of his lungs. "Whatever it is," he repeated, forcing himself to remain on task no matter how delectable Hank might now look, "it clearly is not restful."

"It's perfectly therapeutic," Hank mumbled, eyes now following Boris' lips with intensity. The doctor licked his own lips, and Boris helplessly stared at the _shiny, wet, appealing_ . . . God. Hank's pink tongue forced the German to inhale sharply. As the baron was all but whimpering inside, his doctor continued to speak. "I find it very . . . relaxing."

Boris had to snort at this. Somehow he doubted that an article on heart attacks was overly therapeutic in anyone's dictionary. His love was just being stubborn, as usual.

Or maybe he was not even paying attention to what he was saying. Maybe Hank would say a paper on the Marquis de Sade was completely therapeutic, given how focused he seemed to be on Boris' mouth.

There was an arch look on his doctor's face when he rasped, "Do you know what else I find therapeutic, Boris?"

That slender body pressed against his made him want to take complete possession of his doctor, once and for all.

"Very, very relaxing?" the doctor continued, voice dropping, eyes holding him as strongly as any embrace. As he saw the outright seduction in Hank's gaze, he wondered if the medicine they were giving him was too potent at overcoming inhibitions—or if this was normal for his doctor. Hank had seemed so very shy earlier that this forwardness confused and alarmed him. Unfortunately, it also aroused him beyond endurance.

The noble thing to do would be to pull away and ask.

Right. Pull away and ask. Boris hazily considered this option for all of five heartbeats.

Then Boris looked into Hank's gaze and knew that there was no way short of a bloody world war that _anything _was tearing him away from his love. The look in those eyes made Boris' mouth dry instantly. They were hot, determined, and _wanting._ At that moment, they probably looked exactly like Boris' own eyes.

Moving so quickly that Boris could only register a blur, Hank reached an arm up, cupped his hand behind Boris' head, and yanked him down. His lips softly stroked the older man's until he started to lick and bite Boris' lips. He then crushed the billionaire's mouth to his own, bruising in intensity.

The hell with nobility. Boris' response was nearly instantaneous. He pushed Hank down, pressing him hard against the mattress. Only when his love was firmly pinioned beneath him did he stare at the younger man. Growling, he further opened Hank's mouth to exploration. The kiss became increasingly passionate, almost rough. Tongues dueled, teeth bit, lips bruised. He would never have guessed that Hank liked it rough, that his ardor would respond so readily to bruised lips and clashing teeth, but his love was avidly showing him otherwise.

Slowly, he lowered his groin against Hank's, rubbing against him until the good doctor gasped. His hazel eyes blinked rapidly, and Hank nipped the German's lip. Hank moaned, reaching for Boris and pressing him hard against the length of his own body. Those long fingers of his began to massage the baron's ass, and Boris could feel Hank's hips undulating beneath him.

Boris continued to kiss Hank, to thoroughly plunder the hot cavern of his mouth. His hands were roaming, searching—until he triumphantly found the belt to Hank's robe. Nimble fingers untied the loose belt, and then both of his hands were opening the doctor's robe, pushing it right off of his shoulders. A softly moaning Hank combed his hands through Boris' hair, pushing his groin against the older man's. His hands slid up and down Boris' arms, only stopping to help Boris move his arms through the armholes to his robe. The baron tossed the robe to the floor after tugging it out from under them.

Heat flashed through Boris, and he growled. With a flick of his arm, he carelessly flung the bed's pillows to the side, not even noticing when most of them hit the windows. One hit a fifteen thousand dollar vase; it shattered, but he completely ignored the costly wreckage. Instead, he focused on getting everything between him, Hank, and the mattress _gone. _He tossed the blankets to the side, piling them onto the floor. The alarm clock and Hank's iPhone went flying to the side, but neither cared. Only the final sheet beneath the doctor was left. Boris thrust his hips into Hank's when he had completely denuded the bed. Hank was now pressed flat against the mattress, his curly brown hair springing gently against the sheet—his body so pliant beneath him.

They both groaned at the feel of their groins rubbing against each other, their hips brushing in need.

Sweat dripped down Boris' forehead and neck as he continued to grind against his love. With one hand he supported himself, and the other hand he slid down Hank's chest. Hank was pulling the German's suit jacket off his arms, almost ripping its material, when Boris snaked one hand up his doctor's pajama top. He caressed the smooth skin, feeling the stomach shudder under his touch. His fingers lingered over Hank's ribs, massaging the flesh for several moments; he then traveled up. Boris' fingers were teasing, feather-light when they at last rubbed over his love's nipples. Hank arched against him, keening softly.

Boris ground his body against Hank again and again, increasing the rhythm and fervor. At the same time he continued to play with Hank's nipples, hardening the flesh. He could feel the heat building between them, and he placed all of his lower weight on Hank. Watching the doctor's head toss back, his hazel eyes shut and his breathing strained, Boris sucked at Hank's collarbone. He was almost shocked when his eager love all but jerked off the bed; had he not been pressed against him, Boris was almost sure the doctor would have found himself on the floor, a quivering mess.

Most certainly, he would have to remember that spot.

His mouth readily returned to the collarbone, sucking with increasing strength. Hank whined and whimpered and moaned, scratching at his back, yanking the baron's shirt out of his pants. The doctor's deft hands pressed into Boris' back, against his skin, and his love continued to arch helplessly against him the longer Boris sucked his collarbone.

When Hank began to cough, Boris pulled away—but Hank dragged him right back. The younger man breathed carefully before hoarsely growling, "Don't you dare stop, Boris. Don't you _dare."_

Boris smirked. As soon as Hank was clearly able to breathe without coughing, he set back to work.

Slowly, he worked his way down Hank's chest, kissing and devouring his love. He kissed over the pajama top, watching it became wet with his saliva. His collarbones, his nipples, his stomach all received equal attention. Hank pulled on the German's hair with the intensity of his reactions. Boris was certain he had never had a lover as responsive as Hank, and the thought made him grin wickedly. His entire goal tonight was to have that body writhing and squirming beneath him so much that Hank thought he would die with need.

Finally, he reached Hank's waist. He pulled the pajama pants down just enough for him to drill his tongue into his doctor's navel. Hank shouted, his chest panting crazily with the feelings pulsing through him. Helplessly, he coughed and wheezed—Boris made sure that Hank could easily breathe despite the inconvenient spasms—and his cheeks reddened the longer Boris played with his navel.

Boris leaned over and blew on the now-wet belly button before softly kissing it. He looked up at his love. "Are you okay, Doctor?" he inquired mischievously.

Hank mumbled something incoherent before finally calming enough to look at Boris. The German smiled at his overwrought doctor, now caressing his hips.

"Um-huh," he at last muttered semi-coherently. He met Boris' eyes, pleading. He was gasping when he begged, "Need you. Want you. Oh, God, please, Boris."

At these words, Boris gently edged Hank's legs open, sliding his hands up and down the thighs until Hank was literally wriggling beneath him. He could feel Hank's hardness digging into him, for the soft pajamas were all but useless in his doctor's current condition.

Carefully, he stilled the hectic motions of his beloved by pressing on his hips. Their eyes met, and Boris lifted Hank's right hand to his lips and kissed his knuckles. When Hank looked a bit more rational, more capable of anything approaching lucid thought, he at last asked a question he had wanted to ask for some time: "Love, I need to know something. Have you ever been with another man?"

He gentled the question with a kiss to each of Hank's knees.

Hank sighed heavily. Wary hazel eyes watched him for a second and then, slowly, Hank shook his head. He cleared his throat. His voice was soft, almost inaudible, when he admitted, "No, Boris. I never felt . . . interested."

Boris stared at his love for a moment, giving him time to continue. He simply kissed Hank's stomach.

Hank coughed before clearing his throat once more. Again, that shyness Boris had seen earlier returned, and Hank actually blushed. "You're the only man I've ever wanted to be with. The only one."

Immediately, the baron rewarded his love with a passionate kiss. He poured everything of himself into that kiss, wanting his Hank to understand how much his words had moved him. When Hank was beginning to pant for breath, he pulled back, softly pecking at his cheek. "Thank you, love. You do not know what that means to me."

Those words meant everything to him. His Hank was putting his love and trust in him, giving his body to a man for the first time. It was a gift Boris did not think he had been given by anyone, and it was a gift freely offered by his doctor. He would be Hank's first male lover, the first man to enter the younger man's body and drive him insane with pleasure.

And he was damned determined to be the first and only.

He once more kissed Hank's collarbone, smiling at the intense reaction. That spot was rapidly becoming one of his favorites. After kissing Hank's nose—and after detouring to an ear for a minute—Boris looked back at his love. "I love you, Hank. With everything in me. The fact that I am your first only makes me love you even more."

Briefly, he ground his hips against Hank's, knowing his erection would make it very clear just how delighted he was in this new information. Hank's hips bucked against his own, and the doctor cried out in yearning.

"If I go too fast, let me know," he told Hank, meeting the man's eyes forcefully. They would have all of the time in the world to express their passion. Boris would make certain of it. If Hank needed the time, Boris would give it to him.

He hoped to God that his love would not need the time, but it was his if needed.

They kissed once more. Hank unbuttoned Boris' shirt and pulled up his undershirt until he could crush his lips against the older man's heated skin. When Boris felt those beautiful lips on his ribs, then on his nipples, he lost himself. Boris' hips ground into Hank's, pressing with increasing speed and desire. His mouth he roamed anywhere he could find bare skin, unbuttoning the pajama top as quickly as he could. One button even went flying when he moved with too much fervor. Ribs, nipples—anything on that smooth flesh was fair game.

At last, he gently pulled away from his love's hungry kisses on his chest. He tenderly kissed Hank, nibbling on the corner of his mouth, before he crawled downwards. Boris kissed over the pajamas and whatever flesh remained uncovered, smirking softly at the quivering body. Hungry lips then traveled further down, past his waist. His lips caressed the cotton pajamas still clothing his love's lower half, kissing all the way down to his pelvis.

Unabashedly, he stared at Hank's groin. His Hank whimpered, spreading his legs as Boris' shoulders pressed between them. Almost reverently, Boris allowed himself to touch Hank's obvious need. The doctor was hard, achingly so; wetness already stained the pajamas, leaking out from his swollen head. Boris stroked his hand up and down the doctor's shaft, his touch light, almost nonexistent. Hank moaned, biting his lip and tilting his head back. The baron thought he saw Hank's eyes roll into their sockets.

Boris followed his hands with his mouth. First, he kissed the top of his cock, lingering in his kiss, tonguing the cotton barely covering its prize. He pressed butterfly kisses up and down the length of his love's organ, and his doctor scratched wildly at the headboard. His love was completely falling apart, his control unraveled. One hand snuck down to caress at Boris' hair while the other continued to scratch at the headboard. Boris could not get enough of his love like this: open and wanting, needing him almost as much as he needed the breath gasping between his lips. He continued, now intensifying his movements. When he finally wrapped his lips around his hardened shaft and began to suck right through his pajamas, Hank arched into him, hips pistoning wildly and begging for more.

And then Evan walked in without knocking.

He was going to kill the man.

Slowly and painfully.

"Hey, Hank, how are y—oh, _fuck!"_ He yelled, eyes practically falling out of their sockets.

Boris tried to cover the obvious erection—the obvious _wet_ erection—but Evan had already seen.

Evan stared from Hank to Boris, clearly trying not to look between his brother's spread legs or at his heaving chest. He finally managed, "Hank, what the—?"

Hank cleared his throat, coughing slightly and slowly sitting up. With flushed cheeks, he dragged Boris' discarded jacket with him and edged it over his lap. He coughed again, glancing gratefully at Boris when the man grabbed him a glass of water. Boris suspected that drinking the water would at least give Hank a moment to gain some semblance of control over his nerves.

"I can't believe this, bro! You had a _boner_ for _Boris!"_ Evan stated almost hysterically. His eyes wandered downwards, and he quickly looked away. "Correction: you _have_ a boner for Boris."

Hank groaned, one hand over his eyes in embarrassment. After a moment, he all but hissed, "Maybe you shouldn't just barge into my bedroom, Ev!"

Evan frowned. "I was worried about ya." He paced for a moment, eyeing the state of both Hank's and Boris' disheveled clothing. Again, his eyes quickly looked elsewhere. He sighed. "Apparently, we need to have a long, hard—" he groaned at his own unintentional pun "—talk."

Hank and Boris both stared at him like he has gone completely nuts. He wanted to talk right now?

Boris finally voiced it, "Now? Truly, Mr. Lawson?"

He stared at them both, looking increasingly uncomfortable. "Fine. I'll be back in five minutes."

Evan prepared to leave, but Hank's strangled gasp stopped him. "Five minutes!" The doctor shook his head. "What the hell, Evan? Surely, you take more than _five minutes_ to—to—" Hank blushed so deeply that Boris could see the red flush stain his skin down to his stomach. Boris found it even more intriguing that his love, a _doctor_ who seemed comfortable talking about all types of physical issues, could not look his younger brother in the eye.

Uncomfortably, Evan looked between the two almost-lovers and sighed. "Okay, ten minutes."

Boris stepped into the negotiations, his eyes dark. "Twenty. Or more unless you want to walk in on something you truly do not want to see." He paused before adding, "Again."

The image forced Evan to wince. "Thanks, Boris. You're scarring me for life, y'know." He glanced at Hank. "This is my brother, Boris—my _still-coughing-his-lungs-up_ brother." He had the audacity to point a finger at the German. "Behave."

Hank rolled his eyes.

Boris merely grinned in a predatory, evil way that a shark would have envied.

Seeing that look, Evan rubbed his hands over his face. "All right, thirty minutes. Tops—oh, God, I did _not _just say that!"

Hank looked torn between snickering and ducking his head in embarrassment. Boris merely continued to grin, the gleam in his eyes becoming even more notable.

Evan was red in the face, but he still managed, "Thirty minutes, then, and I'm coming—_coming, _ugh, not _again_, damn it!"

At this, Hank started howling, coughing between chuckles. "God, Ev—" he rasped between coughs and stifled laughter "—get your mind out of the gutter."

Evan threw his hands up in defeat. He started opening the door and heading out, shaking his head. "How the hell would you suggest _that_ after what I just saw? My brother with a _fucking hard on._ For a _guy. Boris_, at that! God, I need some aspirin. And some alcohol. And preferably some Clorox to whitewash my brain." He looked at them before leaving, again pointing his finger. "Thirty minutes, and you both better still be here."

Boris smirked, watching the door close. He then gently removed his jacket from Hank's lap and smiled, looking hungrily at his love's groin. "Let me take care of that for you, love," he whispered seductively. An already crimson Hank blushed even more, but . . . he did not say _no_ when Boris' hot lips made their way back down his body. Or when those lips began to suck his erection. Instead, his hands scraped through Boris' hair, and they both moaned.

* * *

Thirty minutes passed far faster than either would have imagined. They had safely installed themselves in Boris' room, thinking it might be a bit less embarrassing, given what just happened in Hank's room. Boris forced his love to sit on his bed, back pressed against the headboard; he placed several goose down pillows behind his back to make him as comfortable as possible. The bed was made this time, and Boris was once more sitting at Hank's side. Hank had dressed in a pair of sweats and a t-shirt while Boris had changed into a different suit. Both had to since they . . . well . . .

Boris liked to keep some secrets to himself.

The baron had an arm around Hank and was also perched against the headboard. Hank was resting against him, his head on the older man's shoulder. Boris noticed that Hank was looking somewhat sleepy. He hugged him tighter, and Hank looked up at him and smiled that sweet, gentle smile that always tugged at Boris' heart.

This time, they had left the door open. Thus, they clearly heard Evan shouting, "What the—? _Henry Lawson_, if you've gone into hiding, I'm comin' after you!"

Boris shook his head, then calmly stated, "We are next door, Mr. Lawson. In my bedroom."

Evan walked in, glancing around the room curiously.

Hank opened his mouth to speak but ended up coughing for several long moments instead. Concerned, Boris contemplated his love's abruptly declining health. Boris imagined that the stress of being literally caught in the act was worsening his condition; without doubt, he was no longer as . . . _relaxed_ as he had been earlier, before Evan trounced into Hank's room without so much as a knock. Maybe foreplay really was therapeutic.

He sighed darkly. Of course, the less desirable explanation was that the intense physical exercise Hank had just experienced had somehow overstrained his lungs. He truly did not like that explanation at all.

Carefully, Boris leaned Hank slightly forward and rubbed at his back. He glanced at Evan and, pointing at the door to his bathroom, asked him to bring a glass of water for Hank. Evan quickly did so, his eyes anxious as he gave his older brother the water.

Boris smiled slightly. "We thought you might be more comfortable here." The German shrugged. "Hank cannot walk far enough right now to go to more neutral ground, so this seemed an acceptable alternative." Of course, he did not add that his room did not smell like sex and it also allowed him to get Hank into his bed. He was not planning on anything too physically active, of course—not given the setback in Hank's health he was seeing right now—but the thought of finally having his love in _his_ bed in _his_ room in _his_ estate filled Boris with possessive and protective pride.

Hank shivered slightly. Boris knew the room was slightly colder than Hank's—he preferred a colder temperature—so he pressed Hank closer to him. Carefully, he rubbed his hands up and down Hank's arms and shoulders, trying to warm him. After a moment, he looked at Evan. "Mr. Lawson," he began, "could you get the throw at the bottom of the bed?"

Evan looked around, then quickly grabbed the blanket draped over the edge of Boris' bed. He handed the blanket to Boris, who gently placed it over Hank. He even was careful to tuck in the doctor's cold and sockless feet, smiling at the slightly chagrined look on Hank's face.

Seeing this, Evan rubbed at the back of his head. Finally, he pulled the overstuffed chair beside Boris' bed closer to the bed, sitting down in it while looking at his brother. His gaze was sharp, missing nothing. "So . . . are you all right, Hank?"

Hank looked at him, a bit nonplussed. He frowned. After a second, he replied in a slightly snippy voice, "I'm good, Ev—but, uh, Boris wasn't . . . hurting me. At all." Indeed, Hank's smile implied quite the opposite. The older brother nervously played with the edge of his blanket, smiling gratefully when Boris grabbed his hand and held it.

Evan actually blushed, looking down. Boris did not think he had ever seen the man blush; actually, he had imagined a blush to be virtually impossible for Evan, considering that a blush required some degree of self-consciousness. He made a face. "I didn't mean it that way, Hank." Again, he ran his hand over the back of his head, a nervous gesture. "I meant the pneumonia."

"Oh." Hank's eyes widened slightly before he nodded. "I'm good. Getting better every day." As if to disprove his statement, the doctor started coughing. He scowled at the annoying cough before shooting his brother a worried look. "How are you holding up?"

Evan shrugged. "'m fine . . . but I'm not the one wheezing and coughin' like an old lady," he stated with a snicker. He grinned cheekily at Hank's glare. The man only had seconds to dodge a pillow as it came flying at him. Hank grinned as it hit its target.

The laughter faded after a moment. Boris noted that there was a slightly haunted look to the younger brother's face, but, finally, Evan shrugged. "I could kill that bastard who calls himself our dad, but, other than that . . . yeah, I'm good."

Hank shot him a look that suggested quite obviously that he did not believe a word his brother had just said, but he eventually nodded. Boris thought it likely that Hank would be speaking to Evan when he was both feeling better and had had time to process what had happened—not to mention when he was no longer in Boris' bed after having been caught with Boris' head between his legs.

A fairly awkward pause passed between them. Boris thought this pause was even worse than the one that had happened early in Milford when he had been stretched against Hank's backside. He supposed they were just fortunate that this time, no one was shooting at them. Hopefully, Evan would not be shooting at Boris, either, for daring to touch his brother.

Finally, Evan leaned forward, hands clasped together. "So . . . you and Boris, huh? When did this . . . uh, start?"

For a moment, Hank was silent, biting into his lower lip. After some thought, he softly replied, "Well . . . I guess I started noticing it when Boris brought me to the main estate." When Evan shot him a confused stare, Hank quickly explained, "Because of the pneumonia, he didn't feel safe leaving me by myself in the guesthouse. He put me in the room next door, the one you saw us, uh—well, anyway." Hank was practically crimson the blush was so deep. "He kissed me. And I . . . I liked it."

Boris smiled triumphantly at this. Just to see Evan's expression, not to mention Hank's, he added, "It was not truly our first kiss, though, love. There was the kiss I gave you when we shared our bath."

If Evan had been drinking something, Boris felt fairly certain he would have spat out his drink at that moment. As it was, the man seemed to be choking on air.

Hank, on the other hand, just gave him a puzzled look. "What bath?" he asked.

Boris squeezed Hank's shoulders. "You were probably too ill to remember it—and you were not overly lucid. At the time, you were barely able to breathe, so I gave you a bath to help loosen the congestion in your lungs. It helped, I think."

Evan glowered at this. After a moment, he spluttered, "But you took it with him?" Boris suddenly realized that Evan looked angry. No, actually, the boy looked furious. "My brother wasn't even . . . mentally present, and you took a _bath_ with him?"

Boris shrugged. "He needed the bath, Mr. Lawson. It was that or the hospital."

Hank seemed a bit surprised that he had been that ill. Boris smiled reassuringly at him, not at all shocked that his love did not remember the bath. Hank likely remembered nothing from that time; he had been too ill, the fever burning through him.

With a fierce glare, Evan stood up; his hands crossed over his chest and he literally stomped one foot. Boris could not help but think that Evan was five years old. His face was red with anger. "You were both naked, and he had no say in this? That's taking advantage, damn it, Boris, and _this is my big brother_. You expect me to—"

Annoyed, Boris interrupted the irate brother. "I do not expect anything of you, Mr. Lawson. And I was not naked." He wisely neglected to mention that Hank had been. He doubted that Evan would understand his reasoning. "Even more, I was not taking advantage of your brother. I would never do that to Hank."

He might take advantage of others, but definitely not his precious love. If Evan refused to believe that, Boris was sure he could still introduce the idiot to his shark.

Frankly, he was truly surprised that Evan seemed more concerned about the bath than what he had earlier witnessed. Maybe it was the issue of dubious consent?

As the impudent whelp continued to glare at him, Boris sighed. He forced himself to keep his patience. The shark tank would be messy to clean up, at any rate, and Hank definitely would not appreciate his brother being used as exotic fish food. Besides, he knew he had purposefully riled up Evan. Raising one eyebrow, he asked, "Would you have preferred I let your brother drown? It was unsafe for him to take a bath alone."

"No, I wouldn't prefer to see Hank drown. You gotta know that, at least." Evan prowled around the room for several minutes, then he returned to the chair. He scowled at Boris before slowly sitting down. He seemed to have accepted the bath happened, whether he liked it or not. "So . . . first kiss in a bath. Got it." He looked at Boris. "What about you?"

"What about me?" Boris asked, intentionally acting ignorant to what Evan was asking. He did love to see the brother annoyed, and it was always so very easy to annoy the man. Only Hank's presence kept him from an all-out baiting session.

His tactics apparently worked. Evan gave a frustrated growl. "You know what I'm asking. Quit being a dick."

Hank stared at this, shaking his head before looking at Boris' reaction with something strangely close to concerned amusement. Boris smiled at his love, running a gentle hand through his hair.

In all honesty, Boris did not think anyone had ever had the temerity—or was it the idiocy?—to call him a dick to his face. Boris was almost impressed.

Finally, he answered Evan's question. Hank needed to hear this, anyway. "I have wanted your brother since I met him," the German spoke softly. He glanced at Hank, knowing that they had not had the chance to have this conversation yet. He would not let Evan ruin it. "The longer I knew him, the more I felt for him. I think I fell in love, or at least I realized it, when Hank was so ill." Completely ignoring Evan, he kissed Hank's forehead, then his love's nose. "You are everything I want, Hank. And I love you deeply."

Hank's eyes widened, and he leaned into Boris to kiss him soundly on the mouth. Boris could feel the doctor's slender arms wrap around him, one hand behind his neck and the other on his shoulder. Hank pulled back just enough to whisper, "I love you, too, Boris. I didn't know it until we were running for our lives, but I do." He got a quirky smile. "Even if you drive me nuts sometimes." They kissed once more, Boris deepening the kiss and Hank more than willing to plunge further into the baron's mouth.

To their side, Evan suddenly cleared his throat: quite noisily, in fact. Boris finally broke away from his love, but he kept him closer than he had before, wrapping his arms firmly around him. In fact, he pushed himself further to the side until he was behind Hank; gently, he lifted the doctor and placed him between his legs. The good doctor—_his _good doctor—now leaned against his chest, and Boris' hands clasped over his love's heart.

Evan was simply staring at this, mouth hanging open.

"God, get a room, you two," Evan mumbled, sighing and looking at them with annoyance.

Hank stared at his brother. A second later, he shook his head, eyebrows lifting pointedly. "We did. You barged in."

Evan groaned, hanging his head for a moment. A long silence stretched between them—Boris rubbed his hands over Hank's chest and Evan did his best to ignore the German's actions—before Evan seemed to recover enough to glare at the baron. His question, though, had both Hank's and Boris' eyebrows shooting up. "What are your intentions for my brother, Boris?"

At this, Hank stared at his brother, brow furrowed. He was about to speak, but Boris gave him a gentle kiss to distract him.

The German then looked at Evan and asked, voice as calm as he could make it, "My intentions? Are we suddenly in the nineteenth century, Mr. Lawson?"

After asking such a ludicrous question, the man actually had the gall to look angry. "Just answer the question, Boris. You're practically stalking my brother, who, I might add, is now _conveniently _living right next to you. Answer me."

Boris sighed. That protective streak towards his brother that he had often seen in Evan had obviously emerged, kicking and screaming for a fight. While it was one of Evan's few redeeming qualities, it was also outright annoying. What, the idiot thought he would just have his evil way with Hank and then leave him?

Judging by the supposedly menacing glare that Evan was throwing him—though it honestly was more amusing than menacing—Boris thought that was exactly what was running through Evan's perverse little brain. Maybe he was judging Boris' actions based on his own tendency to move from one person to the next with alarming speed. Or perhaps it was Boris' own reputation as a ruthless billionaire who let very few people get close to him.

"My intention, Mr. Lawson," Boris began, refusing to look away from the infuriated brother, "is to make Hank happy, in any way I can. I plan to care for him and love him, to give him unconditional support when he needs it, and to make him want for nothing. I plan to completely spoil him rotten and to make sure there is never a day that he does not know I love him."

He paused, gently hugging Hank to him when the younger man squeezed Boris' hands. Lovingly, he kissed his doctor's temples, then his eyelids.

"And as for stalking him . . . Mr. Lawson, allow me to assure you that I _have chased him non-stop only because I love him deeply_." He kissed Hank's cheeks, then his mouth. His fingers even glided beneath the gap in his shirt to rub Hank's nipples until the younger man was unable to stifle a soft moan. Hank arched his back into the touch, eyes closing softly. "What I want to do with him, I want to do for as long as he will have me."

Hank blushed furiously, and Boris was delighted to see that _even Evan_ had blushed. The younger brother made a face. "Ee gads, you're killing me here, Boris, really. Do you think you could say _something_ that doesn't lead to me wanting to gouge my ears out?"

Smirking, Boris thought the answer was probably no.

Evan was shaking his head when he finally stood. He looked at Boris. "Can I see you for a moment?" He glanced at his older brother, smiling slightly. "Don't worry. I'll send him back soon. Maybe even in one piece."

Hank rolled his eyes, but he nodded. His love seemed to need comfort, so Boris squeezed his shoulders gently. He then quickly slid out from behind Hank's back. However, he gave his doctor a quick kiss, pushing his hair back from his eyes and smiling, before following Evan out the door.

Evan pointedly shut the door.

The two stared at each other for some time. After a moment, Boris prompted, "Mr. Lawson? You wished to speak with me?"

Evan began to pace. He seemed to be getting increasingly frantic. Boris simply continued to watch him pace up and down the hall.

"You know, Boris . . . I don't think that . . ." Evan paused, his face slightly red. It was obvious he was uncomfortable with what he was about to say. He cleared his throat before meeting Boris' gaze. "I don't think Hank has ever . . . uh . . . expressed interest in men before. Not this way, that is."

Ah. Evan was either trying to warn him to be cautious—or trying to get him to stay away from his brother. Or both. Of course, he was not quite sure which might be true, but he smiled slightly. "Yes, I know. He mentioned it." _When we were much more happily occupied, _he thought sourly.

Evan's eyes widened fractionally. The look was slightly comical, but Boris did not think Evan would appreciate his laughing at him. Since this was Hank's moronic brother, he had to at least moderately behave. Unfortunately.

"He did?" Evan asked, moving around and all but smacking into the wall. Boris rolled his eyes. The younger brother was a certified idiot. And, based off that odd reaction to his words, Boris would be willing to bet that Evan had been hoping to discourage his pursuit of Hank. It figured, he supposed. "Well, that's . . . uh, good, I guess."

Boris remained silent. He had absolutely no idea where Evan was going with this.

After a moment, Evan at last stopped in front of him. They met each other's eyes, and Boris was amazed to see determination and protectiveness in that gaze. He knew Evan was protective of his brother, but he had not known exactly how protective he might be.

"So, that's good, Boris, because it means I have less to explain to you." His eyes wandered to Boris' bedroom before looking back at the German. "You'll need to go slowly, then. Can you do that?"

There was a definite challenge in the brother's voice. Boris suddenly got the feeling that Evan was testing him. Perhaps the young man was testing just how committed he was to the relationship?

"Yes, I know that, Mr. Lawson," he replied slowly. He widened his own stance to look as intimidating as possible. Evan blinked at the change in stance, backing up slightly but not completely removing himself from Boris' personal space. Secretly, Boris was impressed with Evan's determination. It reminded him of Hank when he was angry. "Let me assure you that I will go as slowly as Hank needs. I would never risk harming your brother. I promise this."

Evan gave a short nod, and then began to pace once more. Boris was not sure, but he thought Evan was working up to something.

The silence had stretched fairly uncomfortably when Evan stopped pacing. He once more moved into Boris' space, refusing to look away. "Good. Because if you hurt my brother, I will kill you."

Boris was silent for a shocked moment, meeting the brother's eyes.

Without missing a beat, Evan continued, "You're rich, you're powerful, and you're nastily scary." Boris stared at this, eyebrows arching steeply. _Nastily scary?_ Would it be best to take that as a compliment? "But it doesn't matter. You hurt him, you're goin' down. I don't know how, I don't know when, but I will do it. No one hurts Hank, Boris, not on my watch."

Evan glared fiercely at him, and Boris slowly nodded. He would give this to his love's brother: he was certainly dedicated to protecting him.

"I highly agree, Mr. Lawson," Boris spoke softly, and for once he was not mocking the man. "If I hurt your brother, you should come after me. I never want to hurt him, ever."

Seeming somewhat startled at this, Evan cleared his throat, running a hand over his head in what Boris took to be nervousness. Gone was the determined, confident man; replacing him was the usual super-charged, annoying Lawson that Boris could barely stand. However, the fact that the other persona existed made Boris respect him enough to nod. Perhaps he would call the younger Lawson _Evan_ one day.

Of course, the fool spoiled the moment almost immediately.

"Okay . . . cool. I'll see you later. Got a hot date with a hot tub." Evan nodded his head, seemingly agreeing with himself.

Watching this complete metamorphosis into Evan's usual stupidity and vaguely feeling like he had mental whiplash, the baron shook his head. Boris wondered if the abrupt change in Evan was because the man was exceedingly uncomfortable with the topic. He supposed speaking of his brother's interest in a wealthy noble—a _wealthy man,_ actually—could be somewhat unnerving. Or perhaps Evan Lawson had an undiagnosed case of multiple personality disorder, a possibility in which he was most inclined to believe.

Evan smiled goofily, moving away from him. "Bye, Hank!" the man shouted, rapping his knuckles against the door to Boris' room. "Don't do anything I would do!" He then trotted down the hallway, almost running into several priceless antiques.

Boris clasped his hands behind his back, shaking his head. On second thought, maybe he had been too hasty in reconsidering his position on Evan R. Lawson. Evan was a pest. He could see no reason to call him anything but Mr. Lawson.

At least the hot tub got the cretin out of Boris' sight so he could pay attention to the only Lawson he could give a damn about.

Surely, Hank _had _to be adopted.

It was the only logical explanation.

With that thought in mind, Boris turned towards his bedroom. He smiled. As he recalled, there was someone very special waiting for him behind that door, and he more than planned to take advantage of a day spent with his love when Evan Lawson was nowhere in sight.

* * *

[1] Attribution: Lambert, L., Brown, K., Segal, E., Brophy, J., Rodes-Cabau, J., & Bogaty, P. (2010). _JAMA 303_(21), 2148-2155.

_Next Chapter: _Hank is quite . . . happy. Oh, yes, very, very happy. And a madly leering Boris is very, very happy, too. Smut abounds, and—though you probably are shocked that it _finally_ happens—our journey through love/lust's trials and tribulations finally reaches its horny conclusion.

_Thanks for all of the fantastic and uplifting reviews! _The last chapter was interesting to write, especially since I've never done a spanking scene (and wasn't planning on it until Boris kept bringing it up, that evil man!). Thanks, hermajesty1987, for saying it gave you goosebumps! I'm tickled to hear that! I wasn't sure how people would view the spanking, so it's good to hear that it seemed to work. I loved the commend, Murder Rose, that it was sexy as hell.

A few of you have mentioned another Boris/Hank fic. I have a few plot bunnies hopping around right now...there will be something. I just have to figure out which one I want to start on first! The latest episodes have also given me some ideas that I might play with. At least one of the stories I have in mind will probably be another long one, too.


	15. Plan E: Mark Your Territory

_Summary: _Intrigued by his new concierge doctor, Boris schemes on how to more fully integrate Hank into both the Hamptons and Boris' own life. One plan after the next leads to mixed failure and success. Poor Boris!

_A/N:_ Hey, I'm back! Chapter Fifteen finishes the story. Warning: there is sex here! (Or is that really "Yay, there is sex here"!)

**Chapter Fifteen**

**Part E:**

**Mark Your Territory**

Far later in the day than he would like, Boris was staring tiredly at his computer screen when he heard a soft knock at his door. Rubbing his forehead and seriously wondering when _retired _had started to mean _busy at work at least five days a week_, he looked up. He could only hope that nothing was wrong, for the past few weeks had been full of turmoil. The last two weeks had been almost tranquil, with Hank steadily recovering from his illness and Evan only seen from time to time. With any luck, that tranquility would continue, yet the very tranquility made him suspect that the rare peace and quiet was soon to explode on him.

His weary eyes took in the features of his doctor, and he found himself smiling despite the aggravation of the day's business.

"Hank!" he greeted with a small smile, looking away from his computer and rubbing at the back of his head to ease the tension that had been building up over the past two hours. "What brings you here?"

Hank moved towards him, and his fingers quickly hit the light switches. Startled, Boris found himself in a darkened room, the only light coming from the windows and the computer screen. When Hank reached his desk, he turned off the computer.

The good doctor stared at him, eyebrows arched in challenge.

Abruptly, Boris felt his heart rate accelerate. Hank was dressed to kill—and he truly wondered if seeing his love dressed this way _would kill him_, given his current heart rate—in a way that the older man had never seen him. The doctor wore tight black pants that hugged every line of his legs and a royal blue shirt that was silk, if Boris was not greatly mistaken. The top three buttons had been left open, and he could barely see the doctor's fair skin peeking through. It seemed to caress the doctor's chest, drawing Boris' stunned gaze over every inch of him. Hank's curly dark hair offset beautifully with his green eyes, which now seemed deeper, somehow greener than usual. Black leather shoes completed the alluring picture, the tread almost noiseless as Hank approached him.

Boris found himself swallowing hard.

"Doctor," he finally managed to say, voice slightly hoarse. He was proud, actually, that he had not outright stuttered. A less dignified person would have been drooling at the sight before him, but Boris was dignified. Mostly. He cleared his throat. "What brings you here?"

In most situations, Boris tended to think of himself as the predator. It was to be expected, given his background. People feared him for good reason. However, right now, Boris had the uncomfortable feeling that Hank was . . . stalking him. His doctor carefully circled around him, sliding two of his fingers over the side of his desk, over the back of his chair. He only stopped circling him when he was standing behind Boris, and then he began slowly drifting his hands down Boris' shoulders.

"I thought you needed a break, Boris," Hank whispered into his left ear. He moved to Boris' right ear and blew into the shell. Boris found himself groaning slightly, biting into his lower lip to quiet the sound. He could feel the heat of Hank's body pressed against the back of his head. "You have been looking . . . frustrated lately."

Boris blinked at this. God, if that had not been a loaded statement.

He suddenly felt soft lips press against the nape of his neck. "Very frustrated."

Oh, yes, he had been frustrated lately. His love was one of the most _frustrating_ men he had ever met. There was no doubt about it.

"It has been a hectic month," Boris replied after some thought. He slowly reached for one of Hank's hands as they kneaded at his shoulders. Snagging one slender hand, he squeezed it sharply before kissing it. He smiled slightly when he felt Hank's chin rest against the top of his head, his love pulling Boris closer to him.

Exhaling sharply, Boris shook his head. For some reason, now that Hank was here, he could feel his muscles loosening slightly. He decided to tell his doctor what was happening, something he had never done with previous lovers. "One of my managers has somehow managed to misplace yet another sizable amount of money. I am contemplating how long it would take to replace the man."

"Hmm." Hank kissed the top of Boris' head. He could feel the doctor's lips curve slightly. "Do you have any possible replacements in mind?" he asked softly.

The billionaire again exhaled heavily, slowly nodding after a moment's contemplation. He closed his eyes, feeling Hank's lips against his temples. Perhaps the problem was not as urgent as he had led himself to believe. It would be a simple task to fire the incompetent fool and replace him with yet another subordinate. Unfortunately, he had allowed himself to become so aggravated by the man's incompetence that he had not seen the obvious solution.

He smiled slightly. His doctor had just proved once more how completely indispensable he was. There were very few people Boris listened to.

"Yes," he at last replied. He looked up at Hank. "There are several good possibilities. It should be no problem."

"Good." Hank moved to his side. Boris looked up to see the doctor extending his right hand to him. "If that's settled . . . let's get you out of here. You've been holed up in here all day." His mouth curved mischievously, and one eyebrow arched. "I have plans for you, Boris, and they don't involve million dollar business deals."

Hank leaned down to kiss him, the touch of his lips gentle, a caress: a promise. The younger man smiled, and Boris could have sworn that smile blazed through the dark room. The problems at work, the day's stress—all evaporated from the billionaire's mind when Hank was beside him.

Ten minutes later found him sitting outside in a shady corner of the garden, one that few people noticed. Hank was sitting beside him, and they were comfortably relaxed across a soft blanket that the doctor had managed to find somewhere on the estate. Boris could not honestly remember the last time he had shared a picnic with someone, but the fact that his love had actually cooked some of his favorite foods, many of them difficult to find the recipes since they were ancestral dishes, made him smile. They were not as spicy or as well cooked as Boris' own cook would have done, but _Hank had cooked for him._ It made all of the difference, especially since he knew that Hank did not ordinarily get the time to cook.

As he carefully placed his arm around Hank and drew him closer, Boris reflected that he was happy, truly happy. They had just cleared the remains of their dinner aside, and Hank was relaxing, looking up at the sky with a small smile. The good doctor was leaning against him, completely comfortable—even when Boris leaned over to nuzzle Hank's neck. Hank groaned slightly, but that smile remained; he reached over to kiss Boris, the kiss soft and tender. Contentedly, Boris shut his eyes, enjoying this precious moment with his love: the silence, peace, and relaxation.

Over the past two weeks, Boris and Hank had been exploring their relationship, step by shaky step. It had been both a heaven and a hell for Boris. They had kissed, made out, kissed some more, and groped each other. The chance to actually be with Hank, to show him that he loved the doctor, had been heaven. However, the fact that they were moving so slowly—and for understandable and very good reasons—was outright _hell._

One look at Hank stretched the billionaire's already thin self-control. And this was not even mentioning _kissing_ or _groping_ the man. Truly, he had not felt this painfully aware of his own needs in years.

He heard a slight rustle to his side, and then suddenly felt something brushing against his lips. It certainly was not Hank's mouth, unfortunately, but it was cold. Boris inhaled sharply, suddenly smelling something sweet, pungent. He opened his lips to the gentle pressure Hank had placed against them, and he was surprised to find his mouth explode with flavor and texture.

The decadent chocolate-covered strawberry made him smile. He could not imagine how the man had learned of his love of strawberries, but Boris would leave that mystery to his doctor. He opened his eyes, kissing Hank's cheek. "Would you happen to have any more of those, Doctor?" he asked softly, his voice rich and deep, sultry.

With a deep swallow, Hank handed him a small bowl of the wonderful treats, and Boris carefully selected one for his love. His eyes were intense when he met Hank's gaze, the berry pressed against the doctor's moist lips. He kissed those tempting lips, then fed Hank the strawberry. As his love ate the berry, Boris leaned down and licked Hank's lips, nipping at the corners with a leer.

As far as aphrodisiacs went, Boris suspected the little berries were doing their job more than sufficiently.

Somehow, only moments later the bowl ended up knocked to its side as Boris pulled Hank even closer, pressing him against the blanket. The kiss was hungry, almost wild in its heat and passion. Hank's mouth opened for him, wet and needy, and they kissed for several minutes. Boris drifted his hands up and down Hank's sides, exploring the lithe figure beneath him, muscles shuddering at his touch.

It occurred to him, much later than it really should have, that Hank was seducing him. His only excuse for taking so long to understand that fairly obvious fact was that most of his blood had rushed out of his head the moment he felt that strawberry against his lips. Or maybe the blood had rushed out of his head when Hank walked into his room, his clothing a tight caress against his skin, his eyes predatory when he saw Boris.

If this was what Hank was like when he was actively seducing him, Boris wondered if he would survive the night.

Smirking, he decided it was well past time for him to meet Hank half way.

With a grunt, Boris sprawled himself completely across Hank, trying to grasp this wonderful man in his arms. He immediately pressed the smaller body more fully against the ground, wedging his knee between his thighs and running his hands through Hank's hair. His love's arms wrapped around him tightly, his hands cupping Boris' ass until the billionaire growled; he licked and bit at Hank's throat.

Boris pulled back just a moment to glide his hands down Hank's sides until they rested firmly on his sharp hips. He smiled. "I believe we should take this elsewhere, Doctor." He pressed Hank's hips against his own until the young man moaned. "Yes?"

"God, yes," Hank responded, voice deep. "I thought" he kissed Boris' throat "you would never" those lips moved to the German's chin "ask." He kissed Boris once more on the mouth, licking the bottom lip. Boris growled harshly when he felt a hand slide under his waistband, his breath panting when that hot appendage crept steadily lower and lower.

They were up and in the manor in sixty seconds—then in Boris' room in less than five minutes. Their bodies were still heatedly entwined. Boris slammed the door open, pushing his love inside before slamming the door closed once more. Remembering Evan's earlier interruption of their amorous activities, Boris quickly locked the door. He kept his lips on his love's the entire time, refusing to let Hank go for even a second.

Something glowed, flickered, out of the corner of his eye. As he pressed his doctor against him until it was almost impossible to tell where one body began and the other ended, Boris allowed himself to see the candles softly shimmering all around the room. He noticed a bottle of champagne soaking in ice and two glasses on a nightstand . . .

The romantic gesture touched him, it truly did. But right now, all he wanted, all he craved was the wonderful man in his arms. He wanted to devour every hot, needy inch of that lithe body right where he stood.

Hank staggered for a moment, abruptly pushing Boris against the door. The German hissed when he felt the doctor nipping at his throat, those hands now moving to his shirt and unbuttoning it as quickly as possible. Boris quickly turned them around until it was Hank who rested against the door, and the doctor moaned when Boris rubbed his hardening erection against Hank's. They kissed desperately, hungrily, and Boris pulled off his own suit jacket before attacking Hank's shirt. Boris tried unbuttoning the shirt, but ten seconds of struggling with those annoying buttons had him yanking the shirt open with enough force to send the remaining buttons flying. The undershirt was almost gone before Boris even realized he had tugged it over Hank's head and shoulders.

He would buy Hank a new silk shirt later. Maybe an entire closetful so that he could rip them open as needed.

Vaguely, Boris saw his own shirt flying to the side, and he could feel Hank's greedy fingers tugging at his undershirt. When it was also lying uselessly on the floor, the doctor ran his hands up and down Boris' back, the heat short-circuiting what little was left of the billionaire's brain. He felt Hank's hardness against his own, and he pressed his hips up and down, up and down until Hank threw his head back helplessly and moaned at the intense friction. His mouth latched onto his doctor's nipples, moving from one to the other and laving the stiffening nubs with ardor. Hank continued to moan, almost hissing at the feel of Boris' tongue.

They were supposed to be going slow, he knew. He was more than ready to advance to the next stage, but he had worried that Hank might not be ready. Indeed, he was trying to go slowly so that Hank might be ready for their relationship. Besides, he remembered his promise to Evan.

But, God, how was he supposed to _go slow now_, with the doctor like this: half naked and out of control?

Not even a saint could do it, and Boris was no saint.

There was absolutely nothing slow or saintly about Boris when he unbuttoned and unzipped Hank's pants, yanking them down with need until they pooled at Hank's ankles. His hands were almost shaking when he plunged them down the doctor's boxers, feeling the aching hardness against his own flesh, the heat that palpitated against his hand. A panting Hank thrust into his touch, his own fingers cupping Boris' erection right through his pants. The doctor started to palm him, squeezing until Boris was moaning, desperate for more: for more skin against skin, for more of his doctor naked before him.

Desperate for his lover lying beneath him, writhing and crying for him.

Boris moaned at the image. Hank's pubic hairs teased against his fingers, the curly hair soft and springy. He carded his fingers through it, enjoying the texture, enjoying the chance to finally touch his love _here_, where no man had touched him before. His beloved doctor had finally managed to open Boris' pants and push them down with his underwear. Cold air slid against the German's buttocks, but heat met his groin: Hank's hand, his thumb now whispering against the head of his shaft. They further explored each other, at last allowed to discover the flesh of their love.

Unfortunately, there was still too much clothing involved. This was something that Boris intended to change as quickly as possible. "Clothes, off, now," Boris demanded, breaking away from their kiss long enough to speak. He bit at Hank's throat, growling and leaving a bruise against that fair flesh.

The doctor's eyes darkened, and Hank kicked off his shoes and stepped out of the pants pooled uselessly around his ankles; he gasped against Boris' mouth. His breathing was fast, wanting and needy. Boris was not far behind, for he quickly toed off his shoes and kicked his pants to the side. Socks flew off next, and then they were there—with only Hank's boxers between them.

Those boxers would not be there long, if Boris had any say on it.

Firmly, Boris held Hank in his embrace and devoured his mouth until the younger man was melting in his arms. His hand traced the heat of Hank's cock, and his beloved doctor kissed him with increasing fervor, biting at Boris' lips. Hank's hips rocked against his own, and his eyes were blown wide with desire.

Meeting the doctor's eyes, Boris slowly began to tug at Hank's boxers. He could feel Hank shudder against him; he was uncertain whether the shudder was from desire or anxiety, though he imagined it could be both. He deepened their kiss, then, completely and thoroughly ravaging his mouth. The fingers of one hand rubbed at Hank's nipples while the other slowly, carefully pulled down his love's last vestige of clothing.

They were puddled on the floor, completely forgotten, only moments later.

Boris inhaled deeply in Hank's hair, then softly kissed him, gentling their passion. His hands firmly gripped Hank around the hips, drawing his love closer to him and grinding their groins together. As he felt flesh on flesh for the first time, their hardened shafts rubbing together, Hank's breathing quickened; he moaned helplessly, eyes shutting as he almost grimaced with aching need.

"You are mine, Henry Lawson," Boris rumbled, pulling away to look at his love. Dazed green eyes stared back at him, so dark with need and want that Boris found himself swallowing hard. "Every" he nipped at Hank's ear "bit" he now nipped at his throat "of you" he finally sucked at his collarbone. Hank gasped and shuddered in his arms. "Mine, all mine."

Hank returned the favor by kissing and biting at Boris' jaw. "Yours, always," he whispered. His tongue flicked over the German's jugular, teasing at the rapid beat below.

As Boris was moaning, staring at his love with lust, Hank ground their groins together and arched his chest, breaking away from the billionaire's throat to lean his own neck back invitingly. With a moan, Boris licked and sucked at his neck, right between his throat and collarbone.

He was teasing his fingers between Hank's legs when the doctor completely surprised him. Groaning, Hank wrapped one leg around Boris' waist, clasping his own arms to the German's back and drawing his hands through his hair. He pulled Boris even closer to him with a powerfully tightened thigh, kissing Boris wildly, his breath coming in gasps.

The only thought managing to work its way through Boris' overwrought brain was _bed, now._

Boris was all but growling when he crept his hand over the thigh wrapped around his waist and deftly stroked the skin. It felt hot, creamy under his touch, and he could not get enough of that leg wrapped around him. Hank tightened his thigh, muttering, "Want you, Boris. Now."

The words sent a sharp pulse of hunger, of almost agonizing desire, through his body. Oh, he wanted his love, too, and _right now_.

With a hot look at his love and a squeeze of Hank's ass, Boris grabbed Hank's other thigh; he pulled it around himself until it, like its mate, was tightly wrapped around his waist. He kissed his love greedily. "Oh, believe me, Doctor, I want every inch of you." He groaned. "I have never wanted anything like I want you, love, my body inside yours."

Hank's groin pressed repeatedly against Boris' while the German caressed his love's buttocks—and neither man was thinking about anything but Boris at last breaching Hank's body.

Boris carefully carried his treasure to his bed, pulling back the comforter and sheet before gently easing Hank down. He wanted nothing more than to worship his love's body, from the tip of his toes to the curly crown of his head.

Meeting Hank's eyes, Boris carefully pushed the doctor's legs open and leaned down to kiss him. Hank encircled Boris' neck, sweeping his tongue against the sides of Boris' mouth and moaning. He could feel his love arching into him, Hank's hips shaking with need and desire. Unhurriedly, as their lips met, passionate and wet, Boris edged himself between the younger man's legs and spread across him. His body pressed into Hank's, and he finally allowed himself to feel the silken canvas of Hank's naked body beneath his.

That slender body, so compact and beautifully made, was perfect for him. They fit together as if they had been made for one another.

In Boris' mind, there was no _as if._

Slowly, Boris trailed kisses down Hank's neck. He licked, bit, and kissed the flushed skin, edging further and further down. That delightful collarbone passed beneath his lips, and he kissed then bit it. He grinned smugly when he felt his love arch into the stroke of his lips on that sensitive flesh. Further down he explored, gently kissing the lean but well-defined chest; he caressed the skin with both his hands and his tongue. Boris teased his fingers through Hank's dark chest hair, smiling when the younger man arched into him.

The nipples he gave complete attention to, refusing to do otherwise. He licked, laved, softly bit, and prodded the taut nubs. He caressed them, kissed them. He breathed upon them, watching as the chilled flesh rippled. With care he scraped his teeth against the pebbles, nibbling tenderly and smiling as Hank panted beneath him.

Hank's hands stroked roughly at his hair, and the younger man whimpered. "Oh, so good, Boris," he finally managed. His hands moved down to stroke at Boris' back. The caress slowly drifted lower, to knead the German's ass. At the same time, Hank's thighs eased further open, chest continuously heaving, arching against Boris' own chest.

With a leer bordering on devilish, one nipple still firmly suckled between his lips, Boris slid one hand between their bodies, edging it slowly down, down, until he reached his love's groin. He spread his fingers through the pubic hair, raking through the curly nest and listening to Hank gasp. The fingers then wrapped around the doctor's aching member. Hank moaned as Boris began to pump him, his fist tight, clenching. Underneath him, Hank's entire body squirmed, hips bucking, legs spreading, chest surging from the mattress, nails almost biting into Boris' buttocks.

He ground his groin into Boris', mouth hanging open, lips wet. "Aaaahhh," Hank keened. "Boris, please . . . need you . . ." Hank thrust his hips against his touch.

The whispered words were music to Boris' ears, and he smiled. He leaned up to kiss the writhing doctor, then made his way back to Hank's nipples. His hand he stilled, leaving Hank hissing in desire. He left it tucked between Hank's thighs, nestled against his aching member.

Deliberately, he kissed and licked and caressed Hank's flesh, at last letting the nipple slip out of his mouth. His crawl down Hank's body was slow, that tempting flesh begging for his lips and tongue and teeth. Hank was quivering beneath him, his head thrown back and his spine arched, need striking out from his darkened eyes, when Boris at last reached his target: Hank's groin. Softly, he left one more kiss on Hank's lower abdomen before his lips were working their magic between his legs.

"Boris, love!" Hank all but squeaked when Boris' tongue slithered over his heated, aching flesh. "Oh, _God!"_

Boris tightly clamped his arms around his love's hips and thighs. "I am right here, love," he assured, smirking rather proudly. After all, not everyone could generate this level of enthusiasm. Indeed, if he were not pressing his love to the bed, he imagined Hank would have been in orbit by now, so energetically was he thrusting his hips. "And I will definitely take that as a compliment," he added mischievously.

Hank muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "shove that compliment down your throat and _lick me,_ goddamnit!"

Smirking once more, Boris found himself thinking that there were much better things to be shoving down his throat. He began to press Hank's thighs further to the side, rubbing his hands over the muscles. As he massaged the soft skin beneath his fingertips, he continued to edge his tongue further and further between Hank's legs, breathing on the heated skin with desire. He could smell the musk of Hank's body, the potent desire unbearably tantalizing. His own erection throbbed sympathetically between his legs.

And he backed off for a moment, not yet ready for his love to come. Instead, he simply caressed Hank's knees, kissing them gently. Leaving one hand to caress those wonderful knees, Boris began to slowly, carefully trail kisses up his hips and abdomen. Hank moaned, eyes almost rolling at the deep pleasure racing through him.

With a delicate touch to Hank's legs, Boris slowly leaned in, dark eyes intent. He tenderly, gently caressed Hank's spread thighs, smiling at his young doctor. At this, Hank licked his moist lips, sooty eyelashes covering his green eyes. He did not move away from the Baron's touches; instead, he lay there, sprawled out and open, moaning when those fingers drifted ever lower. He tried reaching for Boris, but the German simply gentled him with a whispered, "Stay still. Let me love you, Hank."

Hank groaned heatedly, needily at his lover's words.

Boris continued his gentle campaign of kisses and fluttering touches by dropping his lips to Hank's hips and kissing those sharp bones. Hank panted, eyelashes flickering against his cheekbones. Boris smiled, moving his lips down, caressing Hank's tempting skin with his mouth: thighs, knees, calves, and, finally, ankles. The slender ankles he kissed, then carefully massaged. His fingertips pressed lightly into the skin, massaging the skin with increasing pressure. While his love keened for him, whimpering for his touch, Boris began to once more kiss his smooth flesh. He trailed his lips higher, hands pushing Hank's legs open wider.

Helplessly, Hank arched his spine. His hot eyes gazed down as Boris leisurely worked his way back up, the Baron now kissing and licking the inside of his legs. Moist saliva now coated the inner recesses of his legs, and he shook at the feel of Boris's tongue on him. "Boris," the young man whispered. "Please . . ." he begged.

In answer to Hank's plea, Boris's tongue flicked over his sensitive skin. His tongue slicked across that perfect expanse of cream, tracing the folds of his joints, savoring the tastes exploding against his tongue. Cupping the ball of Hank's left foot, he lifted the leg several feet into the air. Seconds later, his tongue adroitly explored the fold behind the good doctor's knee. Hank shook, his body quaking against Boris. At this, Boris smiled in triumph. He repeated the same procedure on Hank's right leg until the younger man was all but a puddle of goo in his hands.

"I need you, Boris," Hank muttered, swallowing hard as he met Boris' eyes. Need and desire shone in those eyes, but so did a tender warmth that touched Boris' heart. Hank reached one hand towards him, never looking away. "God, I don't know how I survived without you. I love you, Boris."

The words struck deep within Boris, and he closed his eyes for a moment, feathering the tips of his fingers over Hank's hips. Hank loved him: this was not just a moment of passion, of need, but a moment of souls coming together through the body. The very thought of Hank loving him hardened his already insanely hard organ and sent him further up Hank's legs.

Carefully, Boris eased Hank's leg down, gently rubbing his thigh while he moved towards Hank's groin. Once there, he immediately reached for Hank's hand; he, too, did not look away, his intense eyes resting upon Hank's face. Gently, he squeezed his love's hand, trying to show Hank just how much he loved and needed the doctor, how much the younger man had changed his life for the better.

"You are everything to me, Hank," Boris spoke back, voice soft. "And I will let nothing take you from me." He could not resist the possessive tone, and he watched, pleased, as Hank's eyes darkened in response.

Moving with intensity that seemed to trap Hank's gaze, Boris further grasped his love's hand and pulled him up, his other hand clasping Hank's spine. Boris wrapped Hank in his arms, cradling him against his chest as he kissed the doctor's neck. He could feel the younger man's pulse thundering under his skin, and he licked against that throb of life. Hank moaned, his head tilting back, his arms coming up to press into Boris' back. Boris all but growled at the feel of his love in his arms at last, naked and open to him. His embrace was abruptly firm and aggressive, passionate, laying claim to the young man he had loved almost on first sight.

Hungrily, he kissed Hank, opening his mouth and bruising the tender lips. His tongue invaded Hank's cavern, shoving the doctor's tongue out of the way and wholly possessing the younger man. Their kiss deepened, and Boris tightened his grip around Hank's waist. One hand caressed his temples, stroking through his dark hair as it curled around his fingers, while the other squeezed his ass. Hank moaned into Boris's mouth, arching against him and tightening his own arms around the Baron, rocking his hips.

With a wicked smile, he moved his hand away from Hank's curly hair, working the hand down between their bodies. He drew the hand up and down Hank's pelvis, lingering over his throbbing cock.

Boris' other hand slowly drifted between his love's buttocks, drawing a hot moan from Hank's throat. He licked his finger, then carefully edged it against Hank's entrance. As Hank was moaning, staring at the Baron with lust, he pushed the finger into Hank, carefully easing into him. Immediately, he felt the muscles tense against his intrusion. Hank hissed in pain, face leaning against his shoulder, breaking their kiss for a moment.

His love was obviously not quite ready for him, not yet.

Carefully, Boris pulled his hand away from his doctor's entry, now tilting Hank's head back to him and once more kissing him. His lips pressed against Hank's until the younger man was once more opening for him, and he gently eased Hank back to the mattress, lying on top of him. He moaned when Hank caressed his cock, pushing it into the doctor's tight grip. They continued to kiss. Boris then fisted Hank's erection with one hand and teased his nipples with the other. The German jumped slightly when he felt Hank's fingers move from his organ to his ass, the man's hands massaging his buttocks. Boris groaned.

Minutes, almost hours seemed to pass before Boris was slowly edging his way back down the doctor's quivering body. Hank moaned for him, his spine arching the further Boris moved down. His moans increased as Boris kissed and licked his way down, first over Hank's throat and collarbone—he nipped the shallow dip at the base of Hank's throat—then down over his nipples and ribs. Boris happily lapped at his love's nipples, watching them harden and listening to Hank's gasps of pleasure. Hank ran his hands through Boris' hair, his entire body arching the further down Boris traveled.

When Boris reached his love's navel, he dipped his tongue inside, swirling it quickly. Quite proudly, he listened to Hank howl as he plunged his tongue into his navel and out, only to jab it back several times. His love was writhing below him. At the same time, he started spreading Hank's thighs, caressing the inner muscles as he did so. His touch became more insistent, much stronger as he started to rub the tops of his love's thighs, edging them further open—and as he finally left Hank's navel to trail down to his pelvis.

Hank stared down at him, needy, filled with passion. The irises of his eyes were almost black, and his mouth hung slightly open. His face was flushed, and sweat glistened from his body.

Boris met those hungry eyes, lifting from Hank's groin to ask permission. He had to be absolutely certain that his love wanted this, that he was ready for it. They truly had already passed the point of asking, but he needed to do so, anyway.

With shaky arms pressed beneath him, Hank edged up until he was sitting. He captured Boris' gaze, then his lips. The kiss was passionate, wet, almost sloppy, somehow demanding, and Boris found himself plunging into that mouth without reservation. His hands continued to press against Hank's thighs even when they finally broke away from each other, both men panting in need.

The doctor's eyes were dark, hungry, wanting. He looked at Boris with _those eyes_ that practically drove the German to his knees, and he kissed the top of Boris' head. "Make love to me, Boris," he told him softly, again meeting Boris' eyes. "Make love to me until I feel you deep within me. Please."

It was everything Boris wanted, everything he could wish for.

The lovely younger man kissed Boris again, deepening their kiss with passion; one of Hank's hands edged between them, his thumb rubbing against the head of Boris' shaft. Those hot lips detoured to rasp against the German's head, licking drops of pre-come. Boris growled at this; those lips felt wonderful against him, but he wanted Hank's tight little body wrapped around his flesh, wanted it so badly that he ached with desire. Hank's lips were wet when he finally moved away from Boris. "I want you, Boris. Make me yours in every way."

Hank slowly drew away, lying back down and looking at Boris. The baron could have sworn his love's eyes were even darker, especially as the doctor lifted his legs to Boris' shoulders and stared at him. Again, he seemed seductive. His next words poured fire right into Boris' blood: "Mark me as yours, Boris. I need you in me."

Boris practically snarled, "You are mine, Hank. Now and always."

And he went on to prove that to his love.

In what seemed like less than a second, Boris found himself perched over Hank's supine body, carefully pressing the doctor's thighs against his chest. He bent down and, refusing to look away from his love until the last moment, bit and suckled against his jugular. Hank gasped, blinking rapidly, fingers scrabbling at the sheets. Boris then moved one leg off his shoulders, working his way down to the thigh and, after once more staring heatedly at his lover, sucking hard against the sensitive fold between groin and leg. One hand he carded through Hank's curly black pubic hair, sinking into the moist hair with a grin, and at the same time he smiled against the hot flesh he was suckling. Hank positively writhed beneath him, the man's spine arching high.

That spine arced even higher when Boris moved his mouth from the now thoroughly marked flesh between Hank's thigh and groin to the good doctor's aching erection. His eyes gleaming, Boris opened his mouth and gently slid his tongue against Hank's slit until Hank gave a breathy, wanton moan of pure lust. Boris watched Hank pant as the Baron slid his lips over the head, his mouth sucking and his tongue licking at the hot flesh. He moved his mouth further down, increasing suction while he wrapped one hand around Hank's base and tugged.

Boris smirked. "Oh, God," Hank panted, legs quaking, body quivering. Hank squeaked—or perhaps it was a yelp—and Boris smiled around the flesh burning in his mouth. "Boris . . ."

His name almost sounded like a benediction on his love's lips, and Boris groaned, carefully inserting a wet finger into his love's entry. He kept on sucking, all the while moving his finger further into Hank. This time, Hank only hissed when he added a second finger, but the hiss changed to a groan, too, when Boris started scissoring his fingers against the entry.

He looked up to see Hank rapidly blinking his eyes, his hands now clawing at the sheets. Apparently, they would need new sheets after this, but Boris was more than happy to buy them. He would buy vast supplies of silk sheets for his love to shred in passion.

Hank was practically leaping from the bed, his hips bucking, when Boris finally jabbed his fingers against his prostate. His love tilted his head back, shaking violently. He moaned in a combination of pleasure and pain when the third finger joined its cousins, now sobbing for Boris to fill him.

Boris smiled at this, pulling his fingers out long enough to ease Hank's thighs against the doctor's chest. From this vulnerable position Hank stared at him, seeming suddenly shy. Tenderly, he caressed the back of Hank's legs, meeting the doctor's gaze before leaning down and suckling one of his buttocks. He bit the firm flesh before licking it to soothe away the sting. After a few seconds, he returned to sucking the spot.

"Fuck!" Hank yowled at this, his thighs jerking. "Borrrisss . . ." the young man keened. Boris smiled against that hot flesh, thinking he was very glad for the nearly soundproof room. He could not imagine Dieter's expression had he heard Hank's fairly vocal passion.

Actually, he could, and the idea outright disturbed him. He shuddered.

Almost to wipe that horrific vision from his mind, Boris began to spread his love's buttocks wide, drawing his fingers down the very sensitive cleft and holding Hank down when he tried to buck his hips at the motion. He trailed kisses from the now fully marked buttock, its white skin bearing a red and obvious love bite.

His love's long, heated moan sang right through Boris' body.

Hank's speechless need called at him, and Boris carefully grabbed the lube from the nightstand. He almost could not quite reach it, but there was nothing on this entire planet that could make him leave his position between Hank's spread thighs, not right now. Boris was shocked to find that his fingers actually shook as he gently eased lube into Hank's entry, adding as much as he could. This would be Hank's first time, and he would not hurt that beautiful body of his for anything.

Once more, Hank moaned, his eyes on Boris. "Boris . . . need you . . ."

That pleading request for him pushed Boris to very quickly lube his own shaft before carefully lowering himself over his love. The blunt edge of his organ nudged against Hank's entry, hard and probing, wanting in. He carefully draped Hank's legs over his shoulders once more, then, watching his love's every expression, he entered his doctor's body.

The heat was unlike anything he had ever felt before, for Hank was incredibly tight. It was sinfully painful, that wicked heat wrapping around Boris' shaft, the channel almost too tight to move in.

Hank cried out at the intrusion, biting hard into his lower lip and gripping Boris' shoulders with all of his strength. His entire body shuddered, almost contorting the doctor's slender figure. The pain his love was experiencing was obvious, and Boris pulled back, soothingly rubbing Hank's ribs. He then leaned down and kissed Hank, trying to take his mind off of the pain.

As the kiss deepened, he edged back in, plummeting into Hank's mouth at the same time he plummeted into his body. Hank whimpered into the kiss, but he slowly eased his hips against Boris, trying to work Boris deeper inside him. At Hank's motion, Boris reached down and began to fist his love's erection. It had wilted somewhat at the pain, but, within seconds, Boris' touch had worked its magic.

He inched further in, this time moving a bit less cautiously. While pumping Hank's organ, Boris finally allowed himself to slide all of the way inside his love. Hank moaned, neck arching back, and the Baron quickly sucked that skin with urgency. He leaned up to kiss Hank again, kissing his eyelids and nose and cheek, paying homage to the lovely body beneath him, and then he ducked down to kiss the doctor's taut nipples.

At this, Hank moaned—and this time, not in pain. His love's body seemed to be accepting him, so Boris began at last to move. He drew back then, with a snap of his powerful hips, pushed right back in, leaving Hank panting for him, crying for more of him. Hank made tiny, inarticulate sounds that could not be called part of any language but the language of intense desire, finally exploding with, "Oh, _God, _Boris . . . love you . . . but if you don't fucking move, I'm going to tear your throat out!" Hank tore at the sheets, all but whimpering in his need for more friction, more of everything.

Boris smirked at the violent demand. He would give more of himself to his love—with pleasure.

Increasingly, he ground into Hank's body, now lifting his love's hands above his head and clenching them with his own. It would give his doctor something to squeeze as the pleasure completely overtook him. Hank's darkened eyes met his, and they kissed while Boris continued to push into his love. The heat almost made Boris plunge in without reserve, for it was like fire wrapping around him, the tight channel painfully pressing against his length. However, Hank's pleasure was foremost, and he would not hurt him by losing control.

Maybe in the future they could be more aggressive, but right now, that would likely injure him.

The steam built up between them, and, riotously, Hank began to meet each of Boris' thrusts with his own. He screamed and yowled and in general spoke obscenities that the German had never pictured hearing coming out of Hank's lovely mouth. The man was falling apart in complete abandon. His pupils had practically exploded into his irises, they were so black with hunger.

At this, Boris salivated. He wanted all of Hank's body and passion: he wanted to drive into that lovely ass, making him scream for more every day of his life. From now on, he would be the one claiming his hot ass and wringing cries from his raw throat.

Oh, yes, he _knew _Jill Casey was never going to see this part of his love: ever.

Darkly, the baron grinned at this and continued to claim his love, releasing Hank's hands—they again started clawing at the sheets—and moving one hand back to his lover's shaft. He tugged the heated flesh with increasing passion, just as his own organ pistoned into Hank's body. They heatedly, needily worked towards completion, Hank now scratching at Boris' back and pressing his thighs completely open.

Boris hit straight on his prostate, again and again and again. Hank's eyes rolled in his head, sweat glimmering against his fair skin. His mouth hung open, breaths panting out of him. "Oh, hell . . . fuck . . . _damn_ . . ."

The string of curses on any other day would have made Boris look at his love in wonder, but today, coming out of that hot mouth when Boris was so deeply buried inside his overwrought body, Boris took it as the compliment it really was. If he had asked Hank the sum of 2 + 2 right now, he did not think his brilliant doctor could have told him.

He smirked. Not that he would fare much better.

Roughly, he leaned down and bit Hank's thigh. His heated eyes then met Hank's. "Come, my love," he whispered sensuously. He pressed into Hank once more, now biting Hank's collarbone: hard. Hank let out a long, drawn-out, wanting moan, his entire body shaking. "Come for me, Hank, love."

At his words—at his _command_, no less—the muscles in Hank's body started to spasm, and his spine arched off the bed. Within seconds, he was coming, his mind completely lost in his body's primal need. As Hank's body tightened around him, spasming, Boris pushed in once more before he, too, found his release. He filled his love's body with his own hot seed, clenching Hank to him and kissing him roughly, passionately. Boris did not think he had ever come as hard as he did, with his love's hot, writhing flesh wrapped around him.

Hank made a strange mewling sound, one that left Boris with no other choice but to kiss his nose tenderly. He carefully slid out of Hank's passage, once more kissing his love when Hank hissed in pain and loss. His kiss was soothing, gentle. "Shh, love," he murmured, "I am right here."

His lips were equally soft and loving when he kissed that delightful entry to his beloved's body, smiling at Hank's gasp. Satisfied, he tenderly eased Hank's legs down, caressing the flesh before sliding to Hank's side.

"Are you all right, love?" he asked gently. Though he had been careful, he wanted to be sure.

Hank cast him an amusingly shy look and curled to his side, placing his head on Boris' chest. The Baron hid a smile at that action. He gently stroked Hank's back, loving the feel of the flawless skin passing beneath his fingers. Patiently, he waited for his love to respond, wondering all the time why Hank would be so shy after such intimacy.

It warmed his heart, making him feel even more protective of his love.

Hank coughed softly, then smiled at Boris' look of concern. "I'm fine . . . both the cough and . . . other things." Boris almost laughed at this innocuous phrasing. God, this man did things to him, things no one else had ever been able to do. He loved that Hank could one moment threaten to rip his throat out if he did not move inside him and another be blushing deeply. Hank's cheeks were now flushed red. The doctor leaned over and kissed him, gentle and loving. "Actually, I am very good, Boris. Very, very, very good."

Boris looked down to see a quirky, almost _cheeky_ smile on his love.

He snickered a moment before rolling them over and pinioning Hank to the bed. "Are you now?" he challenged the doctor, grinning. He nipped the younger man's throat.

"Oh, yes," Hank said, that smile returning, even blazing. After a moment, he added, "You know I'm not going to be able to walk out of this room anytime soon, right?" At Boris' curious but very intrigued and heated look, he clarified, "The hickies, Boris. I'll have to wear a turtleneck!"

The German smirked as he thought of Hank's words. There was probably another reason his love would not be walking out of their room anytime soon, not with what they had just done. Hickies were the most innocent of reasons that came to his mind. At the very least, he imagined his lover would not be sitting comfortably for a while.

Boris studied his love's face, a subtle smile working its way across his lips. With one eyebrow arched, he pulled Hank's left wrist to his lip . . . and bit. When Hank moaned beneath him, eyes wide and so beautiful, Boris sucked the skin. He pulled back to see a dark bruise forming. "I do not think a turtleneck would completely cover everything, Hank. We will probably need to keep you in bed all day and night, then."

And he quickly set out to prove this to his love. His ankles, his shoulder, his forearm, his hips, his thighs, his belly, even his _elbows_ were marked. As last but quite important on his list, Boris slid to Hank's nipples. He firmly clamped the nubs in his mouth, one at a time, and suckled them as hard as he could. The doctor hissed, back vaulting deliciously, but, fortunately for Boris, the action only proved to push Hank's nipples further into his mouth.

"Uhhmmmlllyy," Hank panted. Boris stared at this, eyebrows quirked. _Uhhmmmlllyy?_ Apparently, he had once more driven all coherent thought from his love's brain. That was good, because he was fast approaching that point, too.

His doctor spent far too much time coherent, anyway.

At last, he pulled back, looking at the wet and quite taut nipples below him. "There," he said hoarsely, his own body responding to Hank's. He tapped Hank's thigh, all the time thinking he wanted to ravage his doctor's body forever. "I think we have you completely marked as Baron Territory: off limits to any who ask."

Hank rolled his eyes at this, though he was hiding a smile.

A possessive, jealous, overprotective gleam—yes, it was not pleasant, but it was the truth—entered Boris' heart and worked its way into his eyes. He gazed at his love, looking over every inch of him, eyes lingering over the love bites. This body was _his_, all _his_: every wonderful inch of it_._ That fiery and passionate mind and soul, which he had craved for so long, was his, too. If he had to, he would stamp his name on that creamy flesh so that everyone would know to whom Hank belonged. Anyone who tried to take him away would find the shark tank very quickly.

The next time Jill Casey came by, he would be absolutely certain that she found Hank with enough love bites to irredeemably force the troll to look elsewhere.

However, instead of suggesting anything remotely similar to branding his love with his family symbol—he frankly loved the idea, but he suspected Hank would want to kick him in a certain part of the anatomy for just the suggestion, and he really wanted that part of his anatomy—Boris tread a bit more wisely and simply said, "You are mine, Hank Lawson. You belong with me."

Instead of being half as annoyed as Boris thought he might be, Hank simply shook his head and smiled. "You're absolutely right, Boris." He reached up to kiss the Baron. "I am yours."

He paused.

And then he _outright leered._ "What're you going to do about that, Boris?" He, apparently quite knowingly, _squirmed_ right under Boris. The German growled at him, eyes hungry. He wanted that taunting supple body under his once more and _now. _ "I think you need to mark me a bit more."

And for the rest of the day—and evening—Boris continued to mark his love, across every delicious inch of his body.

By the time they emerged from Boris' bedroom well into the next morning, his doctor walking a bit stiffly, no one could look at Hank without seeing whose love he was.

Even better, by the time they both walked into the guesthouse, Evan was greeted with a sight that left him spluttering and once more crying for Clorox.

It might have had something to do with the hickies on his brother's inner thighs, which traced up all the way from his ankles to his knees to . . . well, they did disappear under his shorts around mid-thigh. Of course, Boris was well aware that those hickies continued up much, much higher than could be seen.

He smirked. It had been his idea for Hank to wear shorts today, for what good was marking his love if no one saw it?

His smirk widened when Hank turned to him and whispered, "You'll pay for that, love."

He could readily imagine all _sorts of ways_ for Hank to punish him, and he looked forward to every one of them.

Indeed, he could not imagine a better outcome to his campaign to draw Hank into his life. He had won the war for Hank's heart, secured his love to his side, and kept Hank out of danger's path. With any luck, they would never see Eddie Lawson again, and the next time Hank thought he would sacrifice his own health for some insane reason, Boris would quickly chain him to the bed—naked—lock the door, and have his evil way with him.

Yes, with all that he had won, the least he could do was accept whatever punishment Hank chose to bestow. Not that he was looking forward to said punishment at all, of course.

Boris grinned, pulling his love to him and kissing him thoroughly.

* * *

_A huge "thank you" for all of the wonderful reviews that I've gotten! _There is no better feeling than knowing people enjoyed the story. (HerMajesty, thank you so much for your comment that this was your favorite story! And that cuddling scene in the last chapter was almost my favorite-my favorite is still the "Boris is a dick" part from Evan.) This has been a fun story to write, and I hope the sex scene worked well. It's the first one I've written (well, other than the semi-sex scene written for earlier chapters). It's kind of sad to see the story done!

I wish there were more Hank/Boris fics out there, too, Brage!


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